John Clare’s Horizon

Matt Simpson

had to lie somewhere – hedge or ditch
exactly bordering on God. Wanted to know
where it lay from Helpston; found it

maddening – no end of lanes, of fields
where grass and leaves smelt strange,
larks babbled other dialects; wandered

mile on mile in search of it – an end
to far-as-eye-can-see despair;
settled on turning round, went home.