Sunday, 18 July 2010


whiplash tarmac snakes its course
eroding ancient chalk landscape
breeching the yielding mendips
channelling urgently across level somerset
not for me
i strike out
across fields of golden hay
past the yellow hammers
that bounce in the hedgerows
below garrulous crows
that cavort in the sky
or are they ravenous ravens?
now breathless
at the summit of this grassy knoll of brent
saint george's tattered pride
flutters in the breeze
proud cymru ripples away westwards
turn the compass to the east
where arthur's tor rises over avalon
what ancient once stood in my place
upon this mount of frogs?
what forested landscape did he survey?
what covetous conquerors did he espy?
what bloody battle did he fight?
what subsistence did he earn?
all questions without answers
and now i must head for home
for far have i come
but still so far to go

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