For CB & Flint

The briefest of expeditions,
gloam-reduced, on unmarked
rough paths below Uckfield,
in frost’s shade, a steep
cut-back, a scuff of lost road
on our tugged walk along
the dip of a redundant drove:

Sussex verges are now myths
of ribbons, tied-to mournings,
of days-limped bunched flowers,
of candles, air-pinched, below
roadside oaks, elms, or beech;
there her young life leaked
after a deceleration, a kid
cut out by the steel saw and car:

Our return home is assured,
under our slow-stepped walk,
along a lost-name route
on the lingering histories,
yet to be found, laid under tarmac,
only touched by the clod-split roots
of the oaks, elms and beech,
those tied-to fingerers of ghosts.


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