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All fields

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To have stood here in the early sixties,

before this hill wore its necklace

of charmless semis – when this was still

‘all fields’, still ungrazed by herds of houses.

There must’ve been wheat, labourers,

communities sheafed to the seasons;

calls for planners to pick some other plot.

Now pinwheels grow in allotments.

There are paddling pools, dazzling the sun.

Nominated for Best of the Net by East Ridge Review

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