BST

BST – day one
as seen from this flint field

high above the Winterbourne’s
pinned course

above rushes off a distant bypass –
that continuous inland tide

Here I listen for reduced birdsong
as seagulls are distance-summoned

by the hip-jiggered tractor’s
turn of furrow in another flint field

You have walked on – bent to misery
with me left here to rest

above this valley in our landscape –
with an extra hour of light

as if the clocks
had stopped
you leave me and sulk