A field of bumps and hollows, lit by early morning light.
A row of ancient hawthorns, twisted arthritic limbs holding
still the memory of Enclosure.
Hidden by hedges a road, the rumble of trucks, a wall
of sound separating two worlds, a few feet, but a few hundred years.

Time and silence hang heavy here, pierced only by birdsong
falling from the high, blue dome of the sky.
A moon pond mirrors the blue,
reflecting skeletal trees and the past, flashing back light,
and the memory of other faces looking below the surface.

Nettles reach out and burn, the pain soon damped by dew.
A rabbit darts from the undergrowth, a flash of white and it’s gone.
A brown bird hops along a gate.
A butterfly lands on a thistle, orange against soft purple,
as vibrant as the past that still lingers here.

Sunlight pours down the rift of the medieval road,
lights up paths to long-buried longhouses.
ignore all present sound and listen, hear the echo
of laughter, mothers calling, children running, just for a