Twenty-Three Miles South of Cromer


By Jonathan Davies

I left a pen in Norwich.
You probably didn’t keep it though it was a good pen.
I had it with me on the grubby train that took me past
the flatlands and the badlands and the wetlands
and the umbrella trees somewhere between home and Ely,
lining the tracks like romantic paintings of gas lamps by John Constable,
or was he from Suffolk?

No matter the county,
what counts is that he painted East Anglia,
cobbled streets paved with turtle dove wings,
the only place that’s not Holland where windmills believably exist,
something of the rolling Cotswold hills,
pasted paper mache flat against Dutch plains and low fens.

I left a pen in Norwich.

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