King George Fields

We are travelling north,
climbing to the highest point,
back to school days
from Jack's Lake to King George Fields.
Meadows in a weave of cornflowers,
dry spiked thistles and buttercup
break up yielding impressions of hay.
Tall grasses, familiar trees;
we are walking through Tudor Fields
to turn back and take in the skyline.
High Barnet Church, the hill marker,
'Is this Nostalgia?' We turn, older,
and see the smog over Canary Wharf,
the simmering congestion, the city,
innards blistering.
This hill again becomes a shoulder.
We have escaped the centre
and looking back,
it is the future ahead, all trees;
no red, no brick, no battles;
in summertime meadows,
the shoulder - all ribbons of purple,
where we are both golden and green.