We stand assured, macadam solid under boot.

Left and right, road ribbons to nothing.

Behind us the surety of a familiar way, ahead?

A drenched black canvas without features,

save for sodden bog pocked with grit grey stone,

way marked by twisted bloomless gorse.

A dun mud mire rising toward a hidden summit,

our goal, unseen. On Black Hill.

Rotting layers of long dead musty forest.

The fossil fragments of ancient timbers,

past splintering present.

Strike out with firm resolve onto quivering morass,

soaked ground sucks at uncertain feet.