in an oaked corner of wild field,
unzipped, I spilled into a belfast sink
at the foot of the fort on Old Rothbury hill,
a less than generous piss without thinking –
a skein of hinny spittle and skinny sheep disease,
stagnant spring rain, latticed silver wings,
windfall twigs and orange leaves and, beneath
this scum of natural things
suddenly (reflected), the sky was seen –
the kneeling sheep, the block-headed beast,
the horizontal line of trees,
and all became a sort of masterpiece.
and i smelt,
for a moment,
my own iron breeze
and that of many ancient histories.