On the view from a window

 I'm currently working as artist in residence at the National Civil War Centre, a lovely little museum in Newark-on-Trent in Nottinghamshire. 

I'm in the studio at the museum for three days a week, chatting with members of the public, leading creative activities, and writing poems and stories about the museum's collection.

One of the first things that struck me about my new workspace was how beautiful the view from the window was! I can see out over the rooftops all the way to the church and across the treetops in the park. It's gorgeous.

So, I decided to ask museum visitors to help me write a poem all about the view. I asked everyone who came to the studio to write down three words to describe what they saw from the window, then used those words to build a poem. 

Here's my first draft. The words in bold (including the title) are the ones suggested by visitors. 

Chim-chiminey

From these heights, 

everything looks different:

squat square chimneys share space 

with the redbrick and roof tiles.

These worn-out wonders,

an intriguing hidden world

baked in unseasonable sunlight.

The collaged variety of tall trees,

green and red leaves swaying

lush as lettuce-heads 

in shop window displays, 

branches arching skywards

between wall and weathervane.

A layered landscape of unseen architecture, 

mundane and majestic.

This is the history carved from brick and stone, 

quietly existing, 

accidentally beautiful. 

A treasure-trove of abstract angles.

An understated masterpiece.

The crowded cacophony 

of jut and strut and reach,

thought-provoking and glorious 

against the cotton-coloured clouds. 

The silencing centuries 

have shaped this unlikely artwork, 

houses crowding in close 

as if they’re sharing a secret. 

Crooked roofs like checkerboards 

of hard-baked clay. These terracotta 

tessellations touching the sky 

as oceans touch shores. 

Speckled lichen staining 

dizzy circles of gold and grey 

onto each rough tile;

a mottled morse code, 

ridged like old paper.  

It’s interesting to see the world

from up here:

a bleary-eyed pigeon playing king of the castle, 

the tenacious weeds growing leafy 

from the gaps in the eaves,

the dented grandeur

of the church’s gothic spire. 

Beyond the rooftops, marshy fields 

lay verdant picnic blankets 

over the dark earth;

bruised clouds gather on the horizon.

The houses huddle 

and talk of rain.

There's a cupboard in the studio filled with art supplies. When I'd finished drafting the poem, I found these gorgeous pens for writing on glass in the cupboard, and I instantly knew what I had to do...