Corrugated iron Autumn fields.
Flat brown doors of earth
open south.

A tattered cloak of crows pulls fast for the woods to bury evensong.
I mime along to their twilight choir
(but know the words are wrong)

The soft smell of damp light fading
on green water in the steel trough,
safe against the hawthorn hedge
holding the last shape of landscape stolen.

I am drawn back there from this shore.
Back to the woods, hedge and trough.
Just four more fields, through that light, before home.
Four more fields to home.