InstaPoem – a silent contemplative walk through a Welsh village landscape.

I gallop like a horse
an odd sight I will admit
but the winter sun has warmed my spiritspast teasel heads and the old gate post
blue sky light
red dogwood stems all of a tanglethe winter garden rests
five tall poplars wear ivy leggings
green arrows point me south by southeast
to copper islands mapped out in lichens
where fungi sprouts from torn silage bail holesI come across a sheep stuck in wire fencing
released and thankful it contemplates me
but an empty belly needs fillingby the road some broken pink rubble
and graffiti in a bus shelter
taking care on the steep descent to the village below

there is an upturned table in a front garden which makes for a sorry sight
as is this home wind power system
but the guardian at the door sits proud and alert

some other words catch in my mane like drops of dew
Doombar and Pint
Grit and Salt
Sunday and Carvery

the crossing by the school not in use
I wave to Santa waiting patiently down an alley
run my finger over carved inscriptions on tarred poles

a familiar shadow greets me on the memorial
as my imaginary horse gallops off down the old railway tracks
frightened I think of the coming water jump

and on to this field for budding heroes
or a blackbird cautiously walking the line
rolling without steam

the people of the world communicate their anger and frustration
with love it seems
on public surfaces

I hear the silent crack of a branch breaking in a storm
water flowing under an arch of trees
I open the gate here -> but the directions are just a joke

here the dead miners sleep under coal black headstones
their old terrace houses have coal bunkers and outside toilets
my illusions momentarily shattered for no reason

tractor tracks cross my narrow path
what I would give to unpadlock these blue doors and rummage inside
a red gate beckons its owner

no more will the bell toll for the village
expanding red foam fungus escapes from a builder’s yard mess
carry me across the crumbling river bridge before we both break with age

peep as we go through verdigris rust holes
down railway line supports
and on festive peeling paint colours

galloping now the last stretch
a pleasant view some might think
like this starling in high wire silhouette
I come home to a sheepish welcome party