October 7 2016

hawthorn bends my back low as I crouch under

white ghost with red berries in a willow edge land of brambles, nettles, reeds

a thistle holds an old dirty feather, woodpeckers have cut deep circles in the bough

craggy bundles of sticks cross hatched with willow

the great willow whisperer of the air currents  circles

approach the arch

a tunnel brick made

under railway

through fairytale brambles

as thick as your arm

no one here

bees in bricks

some mended

bright green of wet plants

only the passageway is dormant

the rest is nettles, trees, willow, ivy

over and over like billows

like sheets and blankets

the arch is a frame

the arch draws one in

the arch hold the curve

the arch has symmetry, geometry

a magical ability to hang in air

hold weight

we wait for the train to run over us

imagining a sound echo. a shudder, a nerve ending, who knows

cluttered by all the plants, its own sound dampener

cracks and surface layers shifting off

plants hook in any crevice

16.5.13 BMH

maybe the last visitor

old graffiti lingers

a touch of silver

red campion above

lingering white lines of ivy dragged from walls

like prints of elongated birds feet

tracking up the side of the wall

own maps under maps under maps

railway land

untethered, unvisited

a mansion of otherness

for us to briefly people

with our walker’s awe and gratitude

we are held in the thorns

an oasis with every direction overgrown

we are on our own

witnesses witnessing

drawing our records of this moment

we share a moment

quick a train appears

I run under , like a cipher, light zinging, no hollow echo just light speed and a different heartbeat to the slide speed of electric swift moving machine

seconds or less and sound gone fast either side as if into oblivion

we know it came, ran over us and went on

threaded together two women

quiet in a tunnel

savouring the hiding

and the hidden pleasure

that no one in the train can know

we are tracking them

vegetation multiplies and occupies

I have mud foot

from sliding deep in and nearly pulling C in too-

stingy nettle knuckles, torn clothing, evidence to carry back

anther slower heart beat train with its own slow canter rhythm

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