Breathing fresh blustery

April air as I admire the view of

the rusting Iron Men dotted

along at intervals and in which

fixed steely glazed eye

turn their gaze to wind farms

and the Irish coast

over horizons and the seabed

churning as a lost shoal of fish

dance beneath the waves

of amber under relentless sun

to come it is hoped in Summer

I look inward

and reflect upon the amber hue

of disappointment, of days passed

and slept through memories,

I realise I haven’t breathed, I have held

my tongue and stayed my comment,

all has been in the mind, rambling thought,

conscious dripping sour and sweet

and whilst I love this scene

of ochre brown rust disintegrating

into sand and muddy footprints,

it remains only intact

from my bedroom

and all I survey within it.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016