It
takes little more than the suggestion
of a
road to set me off.
The
light’s particular
fall
on woodland and that promise
of
distance recall other terrains,
other
journeys made or intended –
and
how only last month
scrub
silvered hillsides
and
mist plumed a lake
en
route to a different return.
No,
it doesn’t take much to set me off.
A
dispersing tangle of vapour trails
is merely
the most obvious and I’d go
at
the chance of those figs, that coffee,
the
cut grass beside half-finished houses,
figures
of sand dusting dry pavements
and
the noise of headlines left behind.
No,
it doesn’t take much to set me off.
And
as the suggestions come ever thicker
ever
faster, it would seem that – as in
those
lines from a poem I’ve yet to write –
the
urge to get away isn’t very hard to foster.
