Sometimes I step out of the wood
on to a straw-covered path:
a warm wind brushes the hill

Sometimes the woodland ways are too steep,
and the square, unbedded stones
bite into my sole

Sometimes I go on and
sometimes I go back
looking for a place so thin that
even I cannot mistake it

Always there is
the witching wood, and
I am knot-lost,

confronted by an angel who knows
the time and the place
and will uncover me

Feeling not despair but desire,
I recognise boneland,
the place of transition

where the turbulence of time
ebbs like a lackadaisical tide

and leaves me stretched
helplessly on the bare beach
holding on to godliness
but surrounded by demons

and the fishes of galilee:
trodden on,



I wrote this poem after walking  a footpath near Holt and visiting a bookshop