Some Lines From Chalk Country
Too many blurs shoot past, too fast. I stop the car.
Now everything is horizontal, in strips and lines.
Closest, the top edge of the wound-down car window,
then a tarmac slice of country road,
a verge of grass and umbilifers,
a hawthorn hedge whitetopped by blossom,
the long lazy loop of a telephone wire in mid-distance
and fences across the evening fields of April
and when at last I lift my eyes,
the edge of Salisbury Plain,
a soft line chalked against the violet sky.
It's not moving,
and nor am I, thankful that
everything has slowed to a halt.
To stop time is a skill
I have only lately learned.
It's my big task from now on,
with the years ebbing fast,
each Spring tide quicker than the last.
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