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

without destination


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 vĀ East

Uncut hay slumps in valleys and limp ridges

growth stretching to a halt