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The mud-splashed windows of the Hastings train,

Trundling down through Robertsbridge and Battle,

Can't expunge the fierceness of the sun

Though creeping darkness oozes from the sea

To lurk behind the deepening silhouette

Of beech trees, flat and stark, along the ridge.

Short tunnels and dank cuts block out

The waning rays, and every passing bridge

Snaps shut the lingering image of the woods

Made hazy, as each fast dissolving copse,

Unfocused, washed out, merges into one,

All colour faded to amorphous grey.

The landscape disappears into night

And we must wait for the return of light.

Brian Hick February 2014

©copyright Sally Hick 5.3.25