I hate mountains.

They give me claustrophobia,

an inability to see the sky

without looking directly up,

no horizon shading into blue.

I long to stand and look around,

all around, each field fading into the next,

each corner tree a sentinel

pointing the way to the sea.

Long dykes their waters sliding

gently along with a rustle of reeds,

wind pumps tall and distinct

their sails forming a kaleidoscope of angles

with each rotating view,

and then the edge

where land slowly ceases to be

amidst the Wash mud

with its never ending series of pools

reflecting all the skies of the world.

I can see for miles

or just ahead. It does not matter

as when I turn away

it still whispers ‘Home’.