Stella Silvae

You are 
striding alone 
in the rural dark,
pacing your
breathing and your
pulse
with the rate
of your 
apparently 
confident steps,
trying to 
still yourself
with movement,
to find your feet
within the
gravity 
of its rhythm;
when you are 
pulled,
forcefully,
into the lurking 
tornado
of your own 
evasive 
thoughts.

Again.

So when you 
finally arrive 
home,
you’re not
quite sure how
you got here,
how you
managed 
to steer yourself
through the fields,
and the ditches,
and that stretch of the A9
that you’d 
not dare broach 
in daylight.

But you
sense
that something’s
different.

Again.