Out to Sea

Down the hill from Hemptonstall
The Colden Valley hangs on permanent mists
That ignore the turning of the years
Like they ignore the turning of seasons
Lemn’s London trainers,
Like my iPod,
Sit against the flinty paths
Like actors from the blue screen
Badly pasted onto new landscapes

Mr Pod tells us of Ted Hughes,
In this house and out to sea all night,
And later we walk up and over the crumbling drive
To Hemptonstall church to see the generations
Of dead English folk queuing up in rows.

In the over-flow we find her
And stand around quibbling over details
Like paparazzi outside the wrong maisonette.

© Luke Wright 2007