Crept up clinging incline, and I do my brow,

the effort is no effort to glimpse,

as breath shallow dapples thought with cycles

reverberating in machete-snapped winter air,

clasping crutches of lifeless branch,

as one steadies, through a gap man-size;

the space beyond the leafy partition, all

rows of neat border, mirror of none;

deserted as dusk welcomes me.

 

The scent of all wilderness glazing thought,

I put my head under this shroud, see sloping

dust, mud, canvas plain, fixed, firm.

Nod and turn walk on up, to some

interminable summit.

Looking back no option.  Sun filters

through hedgerows as walls trapping

the near past solid, still, within.

 

Painting: 'Tregor and Tregoff' by D. Bomberg

(found at: https://gerryco23.wordpress.com/2011/07/19/british-masters-in-search-of-england/)