we might be straying across
what’s marked out – the given
delineation of boundaries.
Up in the woods there,
where trackways are signed
and somehow we’re brought out
to a picnic area’s designated space,
we’re talking too of dens
and interlaced branches,
traces of those who’ve been
and gone before – and, of course,
those other distant woods.
Through the trees,
some light effect suggests
a geography of displacement.
Mushrooms grow out
of punk timber like antennae
and we’re coming down
through leaf matter, jutting stones
to the river where, without
so much as a thought,
the path becomes
a path that’s leading home.
