Pembury Poem by Guy Northam

The wheatlands were being harvested,
The stooks on guard as we passed
By, traveled through to this town, one more
Place on an enlarging map, somewhere to
Somewhere else.

With me my buddy, my boon companion,
In England in the summertime, alien
To this land, just passing through,
Not touching earth, being the totally
Objective eye.

What are you here? our conscious cried.
We hardly spoke. There was little to be said
Until we saw the signs of civilization, a
Cluster of buildings, and once more we were home,
Further from the edge.