The High Country Poem by John a'Beckett

Drive up to where the smooth road takes a bend.
A peep-look in the rear-vision has you knowing
corn-poppy pretty much behind is what’s ahead
to venture forth into a green Mazury flowing;
table-lakes on which you gamble for an end;
from a road that knows now where it's going:
don’t deliberate but take the turn instead,

let it deliver you by petering out into these old
white, thatch-roof cottages of rambling farms
carved into shape by church or pagan pillage
and that a mother-meadow’s ambling arms.
embrace your no-direction hillocks, rolled
up into the parcel-prospect of a village;
unpack and shack up here, knowing
that in this you have at last arrived.