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1 August 2017

After harvest there were autumn days
of airy nothings. Plein-air.
I hoped that one day, like this
we could build ourselves
a new estate to take the place
of the old one
indexed to its horizon
of dismantled chateaux.

We would grow our own ancient wheat
in a field dotted with subsidised tractors.

Storms rolled in and other weather effects
we could filter out, at least the worst of them.
We compared British clouds to sheep
in dozy evidence of picnics.

I could dream of my younger self
in a cloak of oaks and green leaf-light, the light
unseen in England or Australia,
the light the painters saw
when we dreamed, the golden glow
rolling in
over a desert inland sea.

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