An English Field, In Ripe Poem by Mike Bell

We four-squared the fields,
Measuring the flat-topped hedges,
Of briared histories,
With a quart of different scales:
A brace of busmans' holidays,
(We ploughed our city trades of measurements) .

But the ungrazed clump-suck of meadow,
Brought us both back from town,
And to talk of easelled-landscapes.
Ahead, as usual, the others, a decade behind,
Avoid such muddied reflections,
Puddle-stuck below.

At this indoor hour, with these paints,
To draw that sunset December march:
A survey of possible Roman villa,
Outlying farmhouses converted with other currencies,
The Ripe red brick long-dead slaughterhouse,
And a paced friendship - best not set-aside.