Bogey lane wood

Light funnels through trees;
seaweed green, mermaid’s tails
underground caverns.

Branches crack, a startled doe
flickers by: I’m wood water wet
stinging rain in my face

hoof beats glance off flint
slow canter then a sprint
to the corner of the hill.

Way below all of England’s green
laid out in pocket symmetry
red poppies dissect hills;

chalk snatched hand grafted
above sleeping cottages
where song of nightingale

waits to taunt me.

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