one swirling, cloying wall of mist,
through which the hands of trees
reach out to claw us from the road
at every twist and turn.
The wheels hiss at passing ponds
and they blink back,
blind, black, glassy-eyed.
We switchback through the lanes
hounded by drystone walls, their grey faces
leaning through the windows,
pressing us back into our seats,
where we cower like the sheep,
trapped in our own headlights,
until, as if emerging from a deep, deep trance,
we catch the sunlight dance again,
upon the distant sea.