The road descends towards
the border. One land
makes space for the next.

The petrol is cheaper. I open my wallet
and rely on the vendor
to return the correct change.

The sunflower field: tiers
of tarnished showerheads.
Seeds are hard unfalling tears.
Straggly loose-limbed flying
things find shelter under them.
A magpie on a haystack
turns obsequiously.

In pragmatic movements, loosening,
the flocks of other things, winged
or winnowed, beat towards the country
that is now our past.

Poem by Giles Goodland

I am a UK based poet.