Do I take the road or does the road take me?

Up from the valley

wedges of green part the scribbled wild

Steep, the smell of mycelia in the mould

and heart pumping silence

Until monstrous diesel churning punctuates the Penny Pot pencil coppice

Wise old oaks preside and lanky adolescents lumber

From forest edges to hedges to verges rustling with chattering chaperones

Black caps coal heads

Chains winding metallic engines

Freewheel

The invisible road

worn smooth by tyres

Where grass grows between the treads

 

Storm

Trees blow like soft blonde hair in the distance

Evergreen feathers

The body resisting the bend

Every surface pushing back

futile fingers to halt a flood.

Engulfing

sweeping through naked trees

Great crashing waves roar through the tops

thrown up the beach and withdrawn

spattering spray on to my lenses

Obscuring

A disturbed heron rises

to be tossed up like tissue and over the baying poplars

And rain as thick as fog, droplets the size of sweet peas

impossible to face, I turned and felt