It starts in the kissing gate, the wishing gate, perched on the fence, neither in one field nor the other

Black thorn shadow of the hedge in moon light, the boundary zone become world between

We’re feral creatures, set free for the moment, with paws, claws, wings, tails flexing pleasure

We need not speak as the others do, we need no rites weighed down by stones of belief

No longer tentative nor lonely like the shadows hunched by the old hollow way

Not threatened, nor threatening, but fulfilled by night’s odours & secret sounds of life

We skirt the dreaming host’s storied domain of electric wire flash brightness over trees

Set free by their innocence of our passage through what they imagine all empty.

Soon we are hopping, rolling, running, jumping & flying along the ragged lines

That once held the lowing herd, the quiet mare, the thistles, pig huts & darkling sheds,

Now common & park, fair ground, game pitch, coiled with brambles at hawthorn & holly edge

Jagged liminality of the ancient in-between, all elbowed corners

A berry laden hedgerow, armed with oak strength & poplar grace ‘neath sodium clouds

& curious patterns of stars always appearing & disappearing behind,

Shouting encouragement as we gather speed, driven by the city’s pulsing heat,

Out towards the unreal countryside where the lines are stranger, longer & run far.

The final barrier remains; in an act of denial-magic; our demesne

Is girdled ‘round by a boundary that we cannot follow, for it’s roaring road;

Too many stories, moving too fast & fierce for us, with blazing eyes to catch out,

We cannot follow that which was made to be followed, for we are nor & neither

We are unseen, though sometimes heard or sensed in our secret passage across the night

Our mission must not fail or the living land will be finally, fatally torn

Birds will fall from the skies, songs & skipping will cease, the waters will stink of decay

& stories told by small minds will finally become a truth that none may gainsay.

So we must on, on, towards the denouement of the dance that is our fell duty

The angle of departure cannot vary, we circle the edge of a small copse

Then with wild cries of delight like winter geese, suddenly sighting land over sea

We leap into the tangle of the struts, wires & bolts of the land-striding pylons

Their strange geometry lacks leaves but life it does not lack, singing in wind & rain

Crossing open fields, they forge their own way according to rules not unlike our own

Steel limbed titans, gesticulating over hillsides, ridges & dark valley floors

Set us free! We achieve our escape velocity in shrieks of celebration!

Barry Patterson, October 2006.