The lane in the roar of the Gale

Filigreed tips of naked branches  
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
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.

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