Do I take the road or does the road take me?

Up from the valley

wedges of green part the scribbled wild

Steep, the smell of mycelia in the mould

and heart pumping silence

Until monstrous diesel churning punctuates the Penny Pot pencil coppice

Wise old oaks preside and lanky adolescents lumber

From forest edges to hedges to verges rustling with chattering chaperones

Black caps coal heads

Chains winding metallic engines


The invisible road

worn smooth by tyres

Where grass grows between the treads