I climb random roads
heading for the high fields, where
the skyline sinks like sand
into the future,
and spidery pylons pepper the distance,
carrying messages that no-one needs
A new year is approaching, but still I climb,
turning my ankles in potholes
and bruising my naked wrists
Near the church
a black barn squats in a grubby meadow,
mailbox at the ready:
I pass Alborough Farm without stopping,
but glance back at the sunny school
with the metal gate
Then on to Gilderswood
where elves stand at the crossroads
invisible and blue
And here I am, wondering what is real,
with only resurrection in my ears
How long can it all continue?
How many pills must I take?
Why are the sunsets so bright?
An insane dog barks in a neighbouring garden
but these roads are silent,
unable to defend me:
I try to explain
but no-one believes
I did not mean this:
I should have done more
>This poem is based in a real place – a Norfolk village – where I spent an hour or two not long ago. It has a short street called Near Church, which strikes me as being very Norfolk. Sometimes the backdrop makes sense of the feeling behind the poem; sometimes not.