Downland Light Poem by Giles Watson

It beams in at a slant, lending a nimbus
to each thistle and blade of grass. Land
is prone to tilting; time and distance
are seen for what they are: illusions.
Rooks glint white at a moment's glance,
then lapse into silhouettes, pursued
by gilded ravens. Towns turn to vapours.
Horizons are blurred; clouds become hills.

The Vale shifts into the vertical plane
as though it were painted to let us think
we are not at the edge of earth. The Downs'
slim fingers taper out across the void.
Here, one could fall toward the interstices,
lose hold of the delusion, slip between worlds.