Turning The Map Over Poem by Shirley Anne Cook

Turning the map over


So I take the Piccadilly line through
dew-laden fields,
everywhere early morning
bird call, no garbled guard call.
A solitary rabbit sits on the platform,
rumbles a warning then scurries
down the subway.

Following a buttercup path I head
to the next stop, the woodland copse.
I breathe in bluebell and wet earth smells-
no nine to five body smells.
Bracken brushes my legs,
a bramble wants to walk with me.
I wander aimlessly. I've no sense
of direction and I'm lost
in all my senses.

I come to the lake.
No-one is breathing
down my neck,
treading on my feet.
I take a seat.
A king-fisher hovers over the water,
a drake says good morning (that's a first)
A swan unfolds its newspaper,
but there's not a trace of print in sight.

The sun is climbing through the trees,
it drenches me in light.
I'm glad I caught
this morning's kingdom
and not the eight thirty to Earl's Court.
I walk to the end of the line,
and thank God I turned the map over.