Open
Verdict
From
the Orwell Bridge the view slides east.
The
boats mid-channel drift at anchor,
restricted
to the tidal narrows.
From
here, it is easy to confuse scale and distance.
Board
game pieces of the stranded fleet
appear
a credible alternative to theories of perspective.
Bridge
traffic labours in the cross winds.
The
windsock symbol on the sign
warns
off the caravan and tower-sided lorry.
I
hang like talons to a tilted world the traffic passes.
There
was a reason for this,
for
the pale afternoon leaning to showers.
The
hawk I sculpted from the rain
persists
above the baffle of cloudbank
unshaken
from the heights:
a
figure, toylike in the air.
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