Spring Journey

Scent of bluebells, burning rubber, one wheel
is spinning still. Long spears of meadow grass
invade the shattered windscreen, sharp as the glass
that lacerates my face. Can’t move. Can’t feel
much pain. Light oozes through branches high
above. A kestrel circles, then resumes
his course. Smells of spring air and petrol fumes
confuse. I shiver in a cloudless sky,
blink at the sun. From every apple bough,
white blossom falls like flakes of snow. The cold
stiffens my limbs, tightens round my chest
and numbs. As darkness comes, I think of how,
beyond the hedge, like runes from a world grown old,
the silent skid marks wait to be assessed.

Doreen Hinchliffe