Away from the grumbling flyover
The headlights splash on cars in the dark
As they turn, revealing trees.
We turn our backs and head to the route
Lit by moonglow
Stepping over fallen branch 
And picking over steps in the night.
A pine tree lit gold in the distance
Trembling waving burning 
A living bonfire against the 
Hatching of bark and branch so dark
So dark that we might cross over like void
And come out on the other side
Where we can sit in the night
And see what it’s like
What if our elders could see us
Through the inky grid?
Would they be happy 
That we were thinking of setting foot?

While the shadow gridded twigs  on tarmac
Neatly twitching in the little wind
Tut-tutting, saying, “No passing through
You still have many golden things to do.