A Field Near Ripe

Two crows in black robes
ghost into my untrusting
edge of sight –
that miscalculated corner
of slights – of misinformation

A pair of hooded monks
float across this field
angled south
of Golden Cross –
a hectare of grass pasture

We take a triangulation
of boot-dashed footpaths
Here
a temporary centre
of a loosened ruin of bales

We follow b2 from a2
towards millennial years
of old adding ups
before
Pythagoras came to c2

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