A high mass of tree roots growing down from the sky
circumvent the sunshine and stick to sheltered shadows.
A nature impossible to avoid in the heart of the country –
the centre of a field. Grey light and purple cloud
herald in a rainstorm of dancing lightning and crescendos.
The sparks flash and spit as a mis-wired robot.
Everything belongs here – except for the bench and its plaque.
The welcomed, jarring presence of man and machine.
Catherine Mann gave me “circumvent, rainstorm, robot” as the inspiration for this poem in the Three Random Word project.