Beechland

Joanna Magill

I know every twist and turn 
On the road from my grandfather’s house. 
He lives at the end of an odyssey, 
Across mountain, lake and time. 

I climb into the car
And settle into uneven transience 
As whispers of whistles echo in my skull. 

We become pilgrims, my father and I;
Battling diversions and trains and country lanes.
We carve our path
With hymns and petrol
And the world becomes urgent, blurry. 
But when lights jump from green to red
I see patchwork fields sprinkled with livestock
And glowing lilac in the august light. 

The moon begins her relentless pursuit
And heavy eyes give way to
street-lit dreams. 

Sleep.

The sharp turn nudges me
And leaden eyelids struggle open.
I feel the hump and swell of fresh tarmac
And know that I am home. 

Photo by Sam Dineen

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