My eyes fill with

the rolling fields of January,

bare, leafless,

colourless almost,

old fort hills and soft muddy farmland



gently unexceptional.

hilltop trees mark

the place you know is home:

tears of recognition,

dotted all over the horizon.


Carved out of one of my favourite poem making techniques: writing a piece of prose (in this case, about the journey home) and then cutting the lines up (literally) and moving them around, with further chopping if necessary, to form the shape, feel and sound of a poem.

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