by Sharon Ashton


On All Hallows’ Eve I drove through a painting of England

curved down a morning canvas of white layered upon white

drove through a poem of England where shifting mists hung

above lawns dimpled by apples toffeed and buzzing

saw a Sycamore shudder itself free of pox-marked leaves  

heard an Oak groan to lose bald withered limbs

waved at an old couple in matching tartan hats

swerved round crows in dinner jackets dining on fresh squirrel

came home beneath a moon whose face grinned pink as the giant’s 

sniffing and waiting for me at the top of a bean-stalk. 


An earlier draft of this poem was first published in The Interpreter’s House