No Road
Remembering ’43
No Road. The sign said
Inaccurately.
A painted board sprung
From a verge of nettles.
The road despite it curving
Away round the hedged bend.
We knew of course its proper meaning,
But the draggled bushes
Grey with old man’s beard
And wild rose runners
Whipping the irregular wind
Beckoned us on.
Where would it end?
A farm with a black dog
Barking at strangers?
Or a pitted sandstone quarry
Where swift martins skimmed
Their nervous patterns through thin air.
Curious, we travelled its three minute length.
At the end – the gate
Spiked gorse and purple heather
Where we two lovers
Still journeyed
Our unended road.
© The Estate of Ronald M. White
