Poetry by Christie Dickason

In Lincolnshire

A double pulse beats
down here where we’re
just a finishing touch
not the main plot,
the long slow beat of
the landscape and the
fast-fast-fast of
our getting on.

No time! So much!
Restless scattered herds
of huge sharp-edged machines
tramp across fields. A clustered
pack of chubby vans
strains for the off.
Solitary tractors roar past
throwing up
bow waves of purpose.

The sky smoothes
it all out. The earth allows
us, unperturbed.
In the late yellowing
light, we float, inhaling
apace, the scents
of grass and pollen and cows
following the idle hunger
of our ears and eyes
suspended
in the perfect, vast
enclosing shell of the sky.