Beware the odd surface
of what lies ahead
that you’ve prepaved
with memories of us
who once fed a grand
duchy of ten thousand
men and their families,
their pea hens and cows…
only now, you are stuck
at a console of digital
images, cursing
the slowness of data
that keeps to itself how
we once ruled a kingdom
of wood sprites and elves,
and the research you do to
dispel, heaven knows, a
residual thrill that refuses
to give up its clamp on your
heel, casts a damp that would
otherwise stimulate pathways
more even, to prove there’s
no end to the depths of our
magic. Monotonous silence
we couldn’t imagine when
bluebells and cockerels
danced jigs at our window
will vanish like vapour when
your cell blocks of cinder,
at last, disengage, and
the name you were known
by refreshes and calls me again
to odd surfaces just up ahead.


The sudden appearance of this peculiar sign on our neighbourhood walking trail refused to leave my cranium until I’d given it some kind of raison d’être.

© Elaine Stirling, 2014