sonnet on the loss of place
Leaving East Anglia
My train leaves Cambridge station as the rain
Trickles steadily down, drizzling grey
On building sites, on sidings, on a crane
That dominates the skyline. Through the day
Steady rain falls on farms of rich dark soil,
Freshly turned. Fields stretch out featureless, low,
Lying where old machines rest from their toil,
Crouched against the land, cowering. As though
They know this world cannot last forever.
Beyond them, fields of rape already bloom,
And eight swans float on the sluggish river.
Outside the window, fenlands haunt the gloom.
I glimpse the future as the rain beats down,
And stare out at a world that’s doomed to drown.