Walking Into The Woods Poem by Richard George

It's a tangent from the end of the road.
You park the car.

You tie laces that hoisted your feet
to the bleakest, most beautiful moorland,
a wind farm now.
In the thickening twilight
you can almost see the atoms in the air, grain-fuzz
you drove into after that Zeppelin
with no thought but 'Daddy, let's ride! ' of your children.
That was summer.

To a pew of fallen Dutch elm
you tinder-eggshell. Clumsy cherub's
shaking parents' hands
unstop your last present.

You will never sleep.