The Beech Grove

The Beech Grove

Last steps make no sound;

They superimpose on moist unstirred grass,

On a cold bright lane, shadow strewn.

Flanked by beech, destiny’s guard of honour,

Branches crowd in intangible, tangled glory.

Feet fall within a psychic landscape,

Bereft of earthly impact

Above wrenched-away Earth.

Dappled light dazzles

Those left to wait for unheralded end,

Smearing the screen of one born of silence.

A sight of earth displaced from sense;

Cold clarity. Gone absolutely.

The steps of the un-belonging

Walk an empty country lane-

An after dinner stroll that ends

In Another Place.