Two not-so-old buildings block my north, north-east and


    north-westerly view.


    One a vacated shop;


    The other a sky-climbing and


    space-eating folly;


    Roost, convention and courtship-hall to


    a Cloud of pigeons.


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    Yet in the space between,


    Both my eyes can fly;


    Past road, weather-post and line of


    ash trees;


    Past houses, lights and a pub once called


    Cattle market:


    Past Dales,


    St. Anne of Stanley and the windmill whose sun-lit blades


    twirl above an allotment:


    To a small blue line that can only be


    the horizon;


    An old hospital clock tower and


    an ever changing,


    Always beautiful,


    Stretch of the realm named Sky.