Old pathways, droves subsumed
scabbed over, blankets of undulating
tar rolled out in direct lines through
clover fields, past winding rivers
pleasing as pictures in a pop-up
book inviting, asking for the probing
of a child’s fingers.
Greenish clouds shaping tunnels -
suggestion of motion, movement
in a grey sky, an airy wingspan
to stop the breath
our hearts on the path.