Home poems 1. The Bisbroke track

The Bisbroke track.

 

Walking…arm-deep

in rapeseed,

by     a pylon’s iron-man legs

off     the tractor path,

between     Larkrise village and

a cock-and-bull’ market town.

My eyes cloud over with sweetness

dogs and Far from the Madding Crowd

owners can’t see.

 

Deeper…under the hymn

of insects,

leather bag plays Xylophone crops

hitting my thigh on the off-beat.

I whisper questions discreetly

into down-flowing June debris –

flowering air where

madness cannot exist.

 

 

TamsinAug15′