Poetry by Clare Best

Here is a poem from a series of 'snapshot' poems I'm writing. In each poem I aim to capture sensory details of Woodlands, details particular to a time of year. Also read 'January, morning' part of the same series of poems.

March, afternoon

This hour, the shadow of the Dutch barn
reaches over Struggs Hill
where blades of winter wheat
cut up through winter mud,
barn-shade darkens the ground
towards a knuckled hedge;

beyond light, distance,
field creased against field
unfolding flat as a map
to the farm's margin.
Containers roll across the fen,
dubbing the sound of low tide at the turn.