Trespass

I should not know
that the grass that grows
on the other side of the barbed wire fence
really is more green.

I should not have been
to the top of the steepest field
before climbing down
on hands and heels.

And I should not have seen
the place, where in between
the rocks grow orchids, like a forest
of tiny, curling trees.

These are my trespasses.
Forgive me.


©2018 Lucy Peacock

This poem is from HILL: The story of one Derbyshire hill. Visit www.hillproject.uk for more details.