On a drive to Buxton,
chasing the storm
I felt I was coming back to myself.
The jammed-in jigsaw pieces
re-ordered,
A piece of sky swapped
for a piece of sun.
The clouds were so low
a slow pilgrimage of ghosts,
mantles trailing rain in their wake.
Amid the palette of unending greys
Atoll’s of colour dimmed and flared
Trees, cows and fields
in full HD.
Leaves lent the wind flesh
to dance tarantellas on the grass
and dervish-like
spun crisp bags dry.
I swerved
to avoid the remains of a rabbit
pulped and pulverised into wet Papier Mache'
spread along three white lines
A loved-out cuddly toy
bloodless and unzipped.
