Unspoilt

Here, the pure and sweet
horizon is only
occasionally disturbed
by passing ferries
to the Hook of Holland and man-shaped,
a little, by the oil platform
claimed as a republic in its own right, in international waters,
peopled by (they must be) water-folk, stone and iron
squatters, with gills;
but mainly, it is pure and sweet
and as it was a thousand years ago. It should be so,
yet urban rhythms have usurped my soul, which takes wing
only in the moments, on the train to London, when
dykes, hedges, ditches, suddenly give way to
tower blocks, first stranded in an undecided area of green, then
comfortingly concreted, leaning up against gas towers, propped
up by pylons,
traffic-lulled, serenaded by
sirens.
Then, an industrially revolted masonic shiver,
the crumbling blood-black
arches of Liverpool Street resolve my ecstasy.
Stray spikes of grass, a yellowed fern staunchly defending its chosen crack
enbalm my senses far more lusciously than
cloud, sea, field, sky. I’m a fish happier

out of water.

Esther E Wheatley

To see this poem as it was meant to be read (fully formatted) CLICK HERE to open the MS Word document