Poetry

Barbara Fisher: Viewpoints

Viewpoints   Seven years old and fearless, I climbed to the top of the tree in that green English garden, pushing through curtains of leaves –– oak, sycamore—I forget which— scrabbling footholds. The lawn below disappeared as from my perch the market town spread before me, rooftops steaming in June sunshine. A train pulled out of the station with a plume of smoke. The church clock struck ten. Small figures made their way down High Street, a bus came over the hill and in the misty distance I saw fields of watercress by the river, but not the mean terraces…

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