Peering through the rain glazed glass, white knuckles on an ice-cold wheel. Climb and climb and climb again. The track unknown, unseen, knits its way through stones and streams, piles of planks for bridge. A feral goat glides across the path, followed by St Cuthbert and his mad eyed monks. The mountain ghosts send wraiths of ancient breath to snake along the dips and furrows, blank forms looming in the bleak black fog. Broad silent wings shear close, sharp eyes piercing mine, the old owl hunts his prey. Deers criss-cross the headlights, mimicking insanity. Beauty burrows in a dense dark cloak; the mute magician’s trick. The petrol gauge on low. Static on the radio. The mobile dies.
A small light flickers,
Earths this pounding heart of fear.
Night shapes slink away.