Only Ghosts

The road goes warp to weft in green

Shuttling by ditches empty of anything much

The stench of hawthorn hangs

In our slow-fast car


We go sudden right at the old parish boundary

Skirt the vanished Fawcett's Row

Nettles now, a dip in the field

A turn of the hedgerow 


On we weave, bracketing only ghosts


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