That Perfect Picture

That Perfect Picture                    

 

I stood staring into the fens;

Waves of endless brown breakers

Tidy, unremarkable and waiting

Rippling under a drifting sky.

 

A withered nettle flayed at my knees

Impotent and dancing, it

Flicked at my clothes

With stubborn, corrugated leaves.

 

I watched it;

Neck curved, like a drowning giraffe

Bobbing beautifully in the eventide

To an audience of stale brown.

 

That perfect picture

Of a field in the fens.

 

 

Jeremy Barron

2 thoughts on “That Perfect Picture

    • There is the theme of water running through the poem; ‘waves’, ‘rippling’, ‘bobbing’ etc – the field itself was under the sea not so long ago. The nettle is dying, and drowning seemed the most apt way to describe its desperate demise.

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