Even the ash tree trunks standing

on top of the bank at the gardens edge

are unable to hide the expanse of rust-stained green

from the window of the bedroom he slept in as a boy.

From this same window a once pleasant view

of fields and trees, farmers on tractors,

cows that scattered when the neighbourhood kids

played football where they grazed.

He sometimes woke early in this boyhood room 

to watch the sun rise from behind silent trees

silhouetted on the horizon, the sky

a warm orange glow.

The sunrise seems later these days,

it now has to scale the prefabricated factory

before finally bathing the garden in rays of light

after appearing over the factory roof’s ridge.