Six Hills Lane

Spring's low setting sun, sinks into an impenetrable opaque haze
In a trice the road, that was directly ahead, enters another phase
Xanthic smog hoodwinks the unwary, as if it's smoke and mirrors
Hiding a sham diversion, to where only the phantoms are figures
Itinerants who passed this way, were led astray on Six Hills Lane
Leaving naught behind, but their recycled time, in a circling chain
Lost forever, those who perished, upon the salt-way to the Fosse
Still try in vain, to journey to the other-side, but they cannot cross
Left to drift, they're forever alone on a Roman road, in a fires pall
As they relive to die again, without a prescient reference to recall
Now they're the nebulous spectres cast away, like a trail's vapour
Eternally trying to reach the wolds, on the far side of Twenty Acre