Northern Place

by Freya Metcalfe

Down the striped bank
The purple tree
Sways in the afternoon breeze,
And the shades of green
That surround it
Rustle in a cascading cloak
Of leaves.
Yellow field stretch past the fence
Across the far road,
Ribboned with fresh drying grass
Cut for hay.
The fields rise
In steady waves
Up towards the rough stone hills
That cast a jagged silhouette
Across a clouded sky.
Small unnatural waxy leaves
Fan out to my left
In a wall of colour
That protects me from the world,
And the stone wall
That I huddle against
Is shockingly cold,
Reassuringly so.
The plaques on the other side
Are flooded with names
Of the men we lost
To the want of men,
Carved so precisely
Is the memory.
Leaves blow across the lawn
That spreads out from me,
And rabbits, birds remain
Oblivious to me
As my skirt swirls wildly
In the freezing wind.
Hidden in plain sight.
A beautiful place
For tears to smudge ink.