It was a midwinter walk.
I sought the path from Kirmond Le Mire.
I was with my son and we were engrossed in talk.
Suddenly an impenetrable mist came down, my legs began to tire.
Our aim was to head towards Tealby but we had lost all sense of direction.
We crashed through a hedge and found ourselves on an ancient barrow, as if turning a page.
I knew now where I was, by the Neolithic way, all time surrendered by time’s partition.
Here it was if we were standing many thousand years ago in the Bronze Age.
Hard by unseen a lorry thundered along the Caistor High Road.
But long before Rome this was already, above the forest, a path along the ridge of the Wold.
What lies buried beneath time’s feet, pottery, pagan ritual, a chief’s family covered in woad.
Did once from this place did they look far to the West the Pennines, we are not told.
The fog lifted, we set off to the pub, now in mind’s eye a welcome pint we could see.
But there was a chill about my heart, we avoided the lonely path and kept to the B1203.