I leap from the train
to the tops of trees
Fine open branches barely taking my weight
clambering like ‘The Baron of the Trees‘
Level with my imagination
the terrifying life of a dream,
frozen in the sky.
I follow the road, empty
Coarse country gravel
free from iron, cable channels
anonymous rough rectangles
With hedges which give way to fields
it curves gently up the valley floor and runs on
love will send me there
Smilax climbing safe from harm
and riding smoothly somewhere new
New hay cut curved rows
of light and shadow.
I’ve disturbed young foxes picking through the plenty.
We stare at each other
As I write he becomes at ease and trots his way
out of sight.
A ginger scribble and a flash of white
Magpies pick at the mounded fresh stems
Drying juices, marzipan, sweet wood cinnamon sugared vanilla
from a plain old grassy meadow
Crisp morning smells
The first thought that summer might end
Words come more freely in this direct light
Geese have felt the same
they’re pointing their first v East
Uncut hay slumps in valleys and limp ridges
growth stretching to a halt