Nothing Special                                                   

Here was a wall once, that enclosed a field.
It was nothing special, just lumps of local stone
hefted on to others in a rough and kindly symmetry.
But years had softened it, patched it
with emerald mosses, dappled it with lichens,
rust, silver, vivid lime, made it part of the hill behind.

The field grew no rich grass or pretty wildflowers.
It was nothing special, with tufts of thistle and at the edges
docks and nettles, where summer butterflies hovered.
Two patient horses would look at me
and I’d look back, without any great communion
of our souls, before they bent again to their poor grazing.

Now the field has been ploughed, for a crop
of pipes and cables and footings. Sharp vertical shapes
are rising from the earth, shaming the gentle rain-washed
contours of the wall, what is left of it. Most lies broken,
where the great machines are turning and tearing.
I wish I’d paid it more attention.
Where the horses have gone, I couldn’t say.

Jane Pearn
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Jane Pearn would be pleased to hear them