Disappointed by the cave,
we agreed to silence on our return,
communication by sign alone.
We crossed the little 'canyon'
and paused by the pumpkin-eyed
downward sloping silhouette
of the Morris Austin,
half embedded in the hill,
a relic from before the war.
A fine powder of mildew
glistened on the upholstery,
long since filched for burrow or nest
and nettles poked through the floor,
exposed chassis,
almost strangled by weed.
We continued back through moon bleached fields,
tree clumps regrouping as we moved
into shapes that threatened and as suddenly diffused,
all quiet, except the whispered crush
of footwear chafing grass
and an owl call's occasional alarm.
Something drew us to the copse
of silver birch with its glinting morse
of wind moved leaves.
Unsurprised, you took a stick
and began to beat,
then beckoned me to follow.
Soon everywhere echoed
to the thwack and click
of our forest marimba,
eager for new timbre,
we roamed the trees
in a mounting crescendo
untill stopped by the sight
of a dangling noose
that confounded our efforts to explain it.