A golden-threaded arrowhead
Progresses purposefully, advancing –
A clamourous goose skein,
Pulled by its invisible cord, forwards
Forwards; loping; up
And drop, up and drop,
Steady drum beats
Holding them fast in time and space;
Their ancient puppet-master
Corralling an insistent momentum.

A drone-eyed view,
Hovering above and within them
Would see with their eyes –
See their perspective, the
Long waves of magnetic road
Converging on distant horizons
Glowing in their mind-eye –
An addictive ferric aurora.

They can see, yet not see
A far-off tundra-edge
Raked by rasping breath
Off glistening ice mountains;
Behind, a temporal arc
From spring meadows –
The azure promise long gone,
And memories, fading memories,
Beaten into new futures
By honking wings,
Punching their eddies;
Thumping concealed vortices
In crystal clear air;
On, on, unerring.


A glimpse of a field-track; bounded by stone wall and mottled rust brown wire, holding back the drooping heads of wheat, arches gently over a whale-back hill. Footsteps and hoof marks mingle, intertwining snakes of knobbled bike-tyre tracks, cut nano-breakers in the mud. They take me back to you.

A pint in hand, hazy white through endless chinking, rubbing shoulders on a rinse-cycle, yet the chestnut brown beneath shines through still; the cumulus head floating above. It is raised slowly and takes me back to you.

A tray of pies, bask on a greaseproof towel. Like sunbathers under a midday sun, they brown and sizzle gently. Deep walled, their eggy wash is a sparkling sheen, factor 20. A perspiration of gravy bubbles up from below the lid. A man buys one, wrapping the bag around the body, he decapitates the tourist with carnal zeal. It takes me back to you.

Kayakers on the river, bob like cygnets or inconsequential ducklings, following their mother. The languid rotation of arm and blade, like a goose stretching its wings before flight, leaves saucer marks in the water, drifting away. They take me back to you.

The tired eyes, holding back sleep from the warmth of exertion; yet a smile creases the corners, the mouth too, recalling a moment; or a joke; the fuel of conversation. It takes me back to you.