Because I cannot see it, then it isn’t there.
All there is is the river and the field on the other side.
It does not tower above the Georgian trees
Gargantuan concrete blot,
It is not waiting near the grazing pigs, looming.
Because I cannot see it, then it is not where
The distant grass touches the sky, as the tide
Runs in below the willows and the grey seas
Swirl with the river silt beside the plot
Strewn like a pigsty under the blooming
Sloe, white blossom littering the ground.
Because I cannot see it, then I do not care,
I am in a children’s book, where the river is wide,
And all the ducks are swimming and the only sound
Is that of small boys with pink legs and fat knees,
Because I cannot see it I stand and stare.