over the hill
Whilst walking on the Pilgrims Way,
a scorpion sun reflects in a plaque,
as a brisk wind blows fallen leaves
under a solitary ramblers bench.
I imagine myself on my hands and knees
looking out across the furrowed Downs;
A weary hiker sits heavily on my back,
as a child knocks the sod off her boots
by kicking and scrapping across my legs.
She sing-songs my name, too loud,
wondering who I used to be! And
what Grandma is cooking for tea?
Then like startled crows in a field
beyond the copse they have flown.
Martin Cordrey
Posted over on Applehouse Poetry
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