Mont Robin

The mobile phone mast dominates the hill top
its vast cloud of electricity alive with silent voices

souls and spirits of the world buzz around us
the empty picnic tables, public toilet, car park

a place to play where no one swings nor spins
in the misty drizzle of this midsummer world

we head out to the road curving upwards
greet a farmer in a concrete yard, turn into a deep lane

descend a tunnel canopied in green leaves
are funnelled like cattle to another track, this one

festooned with foxgloves, each tubular flower holding
a single droplet, a cosmos of small, clear planets, calling.

Victoria Field

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