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.
From Bristol to Brighton & Bach 