By Jonathan Taylor Davies
Nottingham is taller than it used to be.
From my window I see
oven red chimneys
and blue slate,
flecked with the kind of purple
that belongs to men
I am writing a fee schedule
on crisp paper,
it glides freely across
the smooth wood of a desk
I can’t imagine ever having been a tree.
at the smeared pane where two worlds
melt together in lazy strokes of faded
tungsten light and mottled grey,
the terraces below a saline blur.
From my tower of steel and glass,
of painted brick,
smooth colours that scorn time,
I am looking for ghosts;
I want to hear about windmills
I think Nottingham happened decades ago,
and the broad streets left behind by bold men,
by old men,
are relics of England.