Eye Walk the Weald

Eye walk the Weald: path, hollow, abandoned highway, impassable in winter, bramble-bracken-deep in June. I carve myself into the earth, each step wearing it away, clagging it or cracking. I breathe the south-west wind. My bones are sandstone, my muscles clay. My blood is thick with iron. I shake my head and oak leaves fall. From the freckles on my arms, speckled butterflies take flight. The dandelions tick-tock my steps from stile to stile, from the meadow-burst of thistles, finches, to the wood, in stinkhorn fug and honeysuckle. Dappled, I sing in blackbird trill, cow call, the hymns of gnats, the leather-rub of leaves.


***This piece first appeared as part of Tunbridge Wells Borough Council's EyeLife arts project.