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.