Just south of Nash Street

Just south of Nash Street
lies an eye-straight road –
not laid by bent-to Romans
or rutted under lost pilgrims’ carts

but a later by-way pegged
between tool-twisted turns
of fleece-carding pricking wires
nailed to long-paced posts

Untouched oaks claim sunlight
in their overhead boundary
Their bare roots act as hazards
for my blind spot boots

which then slip on acorn grit –
that loosely rolled resurfacing
of brittle spawned shells
under emptied boughs

All found-hushes are lost
to door slams of a far off shotgun
At a saturated junction
unknown mushrooms stand

as if randomly placed bollards –
circles of tipped fragile caps
standing more connected
to this land than ourselves

We take a hard turn
to find – again – our east
to leave that subsoil route –
to tread on returning home tarmac

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