I was brought up by cloudlight. Swirls rich as cobwebs
scoured the dark chrome of crescented soil
and bogged November hedgerows, hugging their roots.
And always the wind, billowing, bullying you east,
breathless with how this could ever be home, this sprawl
where the sublime amassed more than earth stripped
of timber for the churches that pegged out a ditch-net.
It barely rained, but we lived in the land of the Flood.
Stranded in the flatlands, the absences lapping,
only those solemn struts could steer you. But they still
let fall their share of distress. Like cloud you felt it
seep in, the will sink with the mute spires and towers
into sullen mud and torpid silt which the ditches,
like spidering turbines, would suck dry as bone.
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