I know these places
Rafters trap the booming sky
and soar, in a hand-held video
of the factory’s last days. The camera
cranes to follow flaking uprights,
yellow-painted, through the chill.
Holed access roads unravel knots
of sheds, a wingspan wide, the roosts
of Hunters, Harriers and Hawks.
Its old name sticks. The Hawker
estate’s rebuilt as cul-de-sacs,
its villas illustrate a cellular
subdivision: each a powerhouse.
Jump jets recast as MPVs,
commuters hum on honeysuckle currents,
flying in and out, industrious,
as if the hangar has become a hive.
View from the Hill
I could convince myself
we drew the river’s curve
right there, and wound
it across the water meadow
with its flourish of buttercups,
just for the pleasure
of clothing our story
in cow parsley and hawthorn,
and of letting May’s fresh energy
propel us further upstream,
beyond the tidal surge,
past a trio of fruit trees,
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