Out there

beyond Dr Watson's Lane,
and the allotments and the willow hair
toward silos and private woodland
take a left,
walk the length
of it's breadth as if it was
a crown upon your heel,
follow the hill like a heartbeat
down toward Playford,
sink into a wash
of pink plaster rows,
railway at your hip,
glimmering bright red,
watch them pass and flash,
as if they were to kiss,
one off to Woodbridge,
other back again,
let little drizzle mist your features,
the ones aged and wisened,
over the tracks,
under a bridge
and out into fields
of inquisitive ewes.
Wander past a cottage
dressed with abandoned wisteria,
the laughter of children
drifting between pines,
side saddle the Fynn,
flickers of moat house
on left hand side,
over a footbridge,
by a water-stained map.
Find a ball, gently clean it
in wet, Wintered grass,
boots full of water,
deep soddened soil
until vast green polytunnels
come back into view,
tired dog by the bootside,
expanse on the right.
Turn back to inhale
a new expanse of trackline
hidden in a valley
surrounded by browns
and come out on a street
in Rushmere St Andrew,
lit by a dusk light,
a strange cutless grey,
walk the long straight home
where water comes as friend
and gift this wide notion
as if words were paintings said.