Trip
By Big Ben
From the thicket
beside the holloway,
you emerge.
Crouching for balance
you slide down its banks
to meet me with a gift.
_‘Looka this gurt stick I found!’_
We continue towards the Black Oak,
an unmissable pair.
Me, the shaman
or otherwise, a wizard –
coat billowing
behind midnight wind,
weathered staff
steadying us both.
You, the farmer of old –
nibbling at oilseed flowers
beneath your straw hat
as we walk.