Two not-so-old buildings block my north, north-east and

  north-westerly view.

  One a vacated shop;

  The other a sky-climbing and

  space-eating folly;

  Roost, convention and courtship-hall to

  a Cloud of pigeons.

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  Yet in the space between,

  Both my eyes can fly;

  Past road, weather-post and line of

  ash trees;

  Past houses, lights and a pub once called

  Cattle market:

  Past Dales,

  St. Anne of Stanley and the windmill whose sun-lit blades

  twirl above an allotment:

  To a small blue line that can only be

  the horizon;

  An old hospital clock tower and

  an ever changing,

  Always beautiful,

  Stretch of the realm named Sky.

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