Trenched by generations of feet
Rising through patchworks of bracken
The burnt honey of winter
The glow worm green of summer
Where the snake bright knuckle heads,
Fronds vibrate to a silent song.
These evolutionary pioneers,
Perform a dusky, blink now and you’ll miss it, miracle.
We, crepuscular tourists who see the shadowy applause
Log locations, save them for future cyber publications
Six feet of analogue pages
Already behind and latterly, above him.
And now, to side-wind to a point
There are no bones under the King’s Barrow.