Cautiously navigating the hedged channel,
Dusk is emergent and shadows intensify.
Puddled rain reposes in indented car tracks.
A five-bar gate and the edgy odour of a pigsty.

A squirrel springs across the darkened lane.
An aged oak stands sentinel-like at field edge.
My main beam exposes a rising pigeon.
A small mammal is watching from the hedge.

Leaves sashay to the ground declaring the season.
Hawthorns provide a static convoy on route.
A break in the hedge reveals a cluster of gorse.
At a corner I brake to a crawl. Was that a hoot?

A progressing beam illuminates an impending bend.
A passing place is needed - I’m hampered by a ditch.
I pull in. They pass. Hand lifted in a thankful gesture.
A timid old dear in a Morris Minor flicks her dip switch.

Farm buildings vignette the reflected eyes of a dog.
Nettles and docks compete with lofty fingered ferns.
Crinkled sycamore leaves rust on a lopped branch.
Ahead, the hedgerows converge and hide more turns.

Finally, I emerge on to a recently tarmacked B-road.
There’s a garden-fresh smell of newly mown grass.
The floodlit sign of the convivial Dickin Arms ahead.
Inside, the welcoming world of beer mats and brass.