Downland Paths Poem by Giles Watson

Downland paths are arched to contours;
their flexed backs maned with broomrapes
and orchids. I have felt them shudder
when I walked them, as though vexed
by flies. Nostrils flare: sullen holes
where beeches have blown over. There are
vast eyelids lashed with stubble; dewponds
are their glazed corneas. A walker risks
being flipped over by a fetlock, when
the wind hits gale-force. There are tracks
which end in hooves. Approach them
from the wrong angle, and they'll throw you
into a tangle of nettles and whin. You'll
wear them down, but they'll not be broken in.