COLLECTED WALKS

It doesn’t depend on what is given here

With the muddy acre stuck to my boots

And the persistence of duty still waiting

- awkward focus on the 8x10’s

toward twelve magpies whittering

between farce and abrupt departure –

It depends on what I left two hours ago

A secret behind frost tipped curtains

Waiting to become part of the map

To be measured and preserved against the legend.

I thought I was moving north-west toward T.

Where the CIA ditched a secret plane some years ago

And where the corpses of cattle are buried

After epidemic F and M;

the earth still full of marrow and milk.

But I was simply moving west and it threw me

Beyond the village and onto a promontory

Where men were lining up and putting on helmets

And digging into white froth from the remains.

In the folds there is a secret, not a treasure

– gold, silver etc – more the way

the earth formed in this ten mile radius.

It smells sweet of tea or honey between the folds.

This is a surprise, following compass points

between hawthorn and holly.

I weep, staying too long, the tears blot the map

causing dyes to bloom: purple

fading to rusty brown or apple green

- there is a decision to be made, as in any journey,

something practical to be done, achieved,

to be afraid of then to overcome –

A stagnant pond can be crossed via the northern bank,

A patient heron called upon at dusk

To be reliant or combative –

The hedgerows alive for last breath before nightfall,

Conclusions of glory –

Yesterday sings itself along,

becomes marks on the chest of a man.