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The Old Track
This old track,
after the wind storm.
Broken branches
creak underfoot.
Lay where put,
in this eternal English mud.
Veined eyes like dogs play fetch,
see twigs stretch
and patternate the floor,
like folds in paper, crushed.
The shapes dance.
A dreamer's canvas
built by chance.
This road.
Once a field lay there,
bare and ragged.
Heads of wild flowers would play.
Children run,
in cart wheels and screams,
over streams,
through sunlit yellow-greens from the dark woods,
to the heart of the meadow
where the great oak stood,
arms wide,
skin rough and cracked.
Veined and ragged,
like this old track.
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