In Hayfield I imagine
not just the nuts and bolts of split cockpits 
but a Spitfire’s sunk fuselage 

has smoked out its entirety unseen 
from one century to the next.
At Edale Cross, Birch Vale or Kinder, in rock, field or peat bog more than machinery beds down and is lost, it’s true but here in this field with all of the exposed corn, yellow as scattered light bubble-packing the soil, the vanishings are less numerous but no less strange - a child here, a dog there, a stoat whose teeth weren’t defence enough have become a cache of quiet forgettings, plucked without fuss and gone without trace and a frayed crucifix - tweed coat, stoved in chest and stitched neck ruff - has shrugged his coat hanger shoulders and pogo’d west from the rising sun.
In the first tatters of light blameless crows rattle in the wind.
John Lindley

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