Swept Paddock through Waning Light
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
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/)