The sun’s dazzle and the brunt of wind
could get nowhere near anyone sheltered
in this sunken lane – a deep tunnel
for wandering, thinking and growing old in
where darkness will close in with rain,
where cow-parsley will grow so dense
on either side and hawthorn so profuse
that she’ll be lost between continuous walls
of whelming green, through which thought
will burrow in almost perpetual blindness.
If she had stilts that were twelve feet high
she could see over the canopy of trees
to sky, and watch the sea from here.
But near the ground, peering through
a gap in one thick screen, all she can glimpse
is the ploughed field as a brilliant pink sheen
and the gull flying above dry furrows
as a kindred spirit who has broken free
of edges, barriers, and shadows.