Wednesday, 20 May 2009


All the trees are Hockney’s on the
Way to Castle Hill up to the High
Street of South Cave until a road
That flows beneath a stranded span
Of branches, shed of summer canopies,
And to the slopes where rough ploughed
Gouges run between steps of deadened snow.

By a little village that has forgiven
Time’s forgetfulness but would never
Let its guard down in the winter’s nest
Now settled, and whose salted streets
Have seasonally survived the worst these
Hinter Wolds and long ranged roads have
Thrown at it through readied years of exile.

Beyond the bare crowned tops we
Reach the start of Cottingham and on
Beside a traveller’s camp that’s been set
Fast for years, thanking our driver
For her knowledge of these parts, before
The sprawling order of the Ward greets us
With more attendees than we, the soon to be:

The unlucky shoved who, but for an b
Age ago, would have bourne their child
In their own town had fools not pulled
Down delivery rooms and replaced them
With old folk’s homes that came too late
For those in need, whose care in the community
Used to mean exactly that, and not day trips away.

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