I’m caught unawares gloveless, hatless
But this is more like it, late November
Mist, parrying with pushy sea-fret
Across the Tops, raw.
I talk to my young dog, delight in her
As always give her space
But never too off guard, along the Old Track
Briar, Hawthorn and Elder, fresh blossoms
Still, vying with lush and wizened berries
Through the leaves stunted, sprouting on the branch
Slithery mulch underfoot, almost hybrids
Weird, certainly unseasonable.

The great Beech capped barrow is visible today, just.
Notebook and pen, often a camera but a dowsing rod
Or some such tool would be best
For it is still here, in certain places
Unaffected by diverse time or season
Neolithic. Bronze. Ancient
Roots. Mesmerising.
Leys, just leys! God such energy!
Across the rise I bawl cup-handed
Listen, at last hear the approaching
Familiar disc jingle-jangle
Whoa, steady lass, steady!
Senses are keener when thinking dog
Primeval, post holocaust
This strange Autumn.

© Margaret Cook, from Solo Traveller, October 1997