577 - The Wrong Turning

it was not the land that thwarted me
late morning - nor was it the weather
while fog was replaced by a westerly
and rain - but a field missed by a feather

after I had gone through the spinney
where a lifesaver hung up round a sign
had its foam gnawed by affinity
to danger. so I veered east and aligned

myself with getting lost. four partridges
rose from open ground - reluctant to move
just because I got it wrong at the bridge.
seeing someone else on the walk disproved

my dead reckoning. memory is a prologue
of impartable feathers in the fog.

Woodford Halse
10 September 2021