Filigreed tips of naked branches Strain Against the roar of the gale; A solitary crow- in futile flight- Relinquishes its path Carried by the current On a different plane; Carrying the ghostly Conversations of ancient miners Who trudged this route In twilight hours As darkness and grey mist Descend Deep into the sunken lane Where carpets of spongy moss creep Over sodden branches and roots; And dripping ferns plug every gap. Pot -hole riven, The single track is stretched in girth and lined in running orange stain Of tractor tread, Leaching from the ancient banks Punctuated only by gateways Splayed wide open Straining on the hinges That hold them.
My Devon Life 