along the lane, overhung
with lemon leaves, lazily swung
like rope across the landscape.
At their rugged, naked feet,
mud is sun–baked and crumbling,
draped with dried-up weeds and grass,
where humans rarely pass,
only rain, wind and mice
that burrow, deep beneath the footing,
a tissue of tunnels and apertures
adorned with a glint of gossamer.
Kim M. Russell, 2017