Should you ever care to walk, or dare
some length of Emperor Hadrian’s Wall,
it is advised, by Roman Legionnaires
and other hardy souls in the know,
to lay your best foot down way out
in the west & march
into the east.
The wind, a constant howl
will be at your back
and at least
you will sail.
a constant westerly
The witches barely
make good their escape.
The sky is bigger, better, here.
It settles in the treetops. Stretches
across a distant pencil line –
from left to right. Such detail!
Black-faced sheep, blue numbered backs
and flat sheets of silvered water.
Collected rain and orange leaves. Horses
of many hands, alone, in the field.
They are intent on something.
I can taste the birch tree bark. Hear
the orange five-bar flake. Beyond
the gate, a caravan collapses with
quiet dignity at the margin. Rotting
fox, riddled with life. Ravens
on the rolling sky. Turning
like so much rubbish. Bags –
witches’ knickers! Snagged!