Seven point five
A boot-sucked dropdown
and through Views Wood
across a scuffed bridge
and a rank ditch in flood
I clamber – not climb –
up the leaf-pressed path
My rooted friction slows
each step and staff press
as my step is led straight
alongside a hawthorn hedge
The sun is low – cooled –
a million miles to my left
And on to his dead centre –
a landlord’s dictate by oaks
into an estate of birches
then across rolled out tarmac –
on past Buxted Hotel’s views
Up to St. Margaret the Queen –
a landmark of curious ghosts –
of gravestones’ tilts
and on to a squealing gate
where seeping gothic
creeps slowly on buttresses
Under a weighty yew tree
old boughs pray for props
Then to a wall by holy ground –
a crumbled brick boundary
This is a walk I have desired.