that’s what she said. Of course,
I begin to find fault: a shrub partly obscures the view,
there’s a glint of car windows and,
if I listen hard enough, I sense the thrum of traffic.
I’ll admit the colours are strong,
mid-summer: yellows of wheat-fields,
oaky greens, and the hills’ hazed blue.
A single cloud hovers off-centre, elders waft,
sheep bleat, swallows jaunt. Yes, it’s lovely.
But the Best View?
    It’s like someone telling you
their top three films. You’ll disagree. Instantly.
Plus, there isn’t a river, the valley could be deeper,
the blue bluer.
   Had she not said a thing,
I’d have sat here, quietly smug,
feeling I’d discovered this place,
would have gone home, told everyone
I’d found the Best View in England.