Black Hole

Black Hole

 It reveals itself again,

As Winter’s reedy grass recedes,

Down there, at the foot of the fence,

A hole into a blackness beyond,

Where creatures scurry who knows whence.

A trail, a path so obvious now -

Damp, dark and muddy,

Between the slats of wood, a funnel,

Leading into the undergrowth,

Entering a tangled natural tunnel.

Deserted passage in the day,

Abandoned so it seems,

While ever there is light,

But a busy feral footpath,

And crowded highway throughout the night.

Leaving the ordered,

The known and familiar land,

Where garden crops are sown,

The track-way dives through the portal,

And disappears into an unknown.

So my mind tends to flow,

A blackness revealed in Winter:

Bad thoughts, tangled, confused,

A dark hole of depression,

An old pathway, well-used.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012