West

My horizon is west. I root myself, the sun rising behind me, always finding my compass points from the west.

Houses and rooftops now fill the flat field-scape that held my gaze and where I knew every scrubby hawthorn in its ragged borders. The sun no longer sets as it did, bleeding into the furrows and ditches, staining the trees’ reaching fingertips red. So, although my first view every morning is still to the west, my horizon is gone. There is no pleasure in gazing at rooftops.