12 July 2007, 12:10 PM
Ashford Int’l Train Station
There’s nothing particular about
the flowers. I’ve seen yarrow
countless times in the fields
and on the roadsides back home.
The mist is simply, unremarkably
the same water that hangs on the fields
of Kentucky; falls unceasingly
in the spring- it falls as it pleases here.
The trees are familiar, boasting only
slight varietal differences, so slight
as to share names with those friendly,
shading branches in my own yard.
Placement is key, scarcity or plenitude
and care given to wild things- something in
the life of things that makes them
distinctly British- or otherwise.