From the Wilfred Owen Room at The Clockhouse, The Hurst, Clinton, October 2021

Thankfully, the fields I look out on

are not those in which battles

were buried as the clay grew tall


they are gently sloping hills,

trees grasping sunshine, and the grass –

I have these precious moments


to write and write and write

as if my life depended upon

the precision of chosen words


and the luxury of time to edit

to delete, to erase, seemingly forever

but ideas resurface


scramble to be reborn

until the world is well again.



Life outside the window