A VISION. Drifting slowly asleep head bouncing gently on the carriage window. Beyond my silence continues the commuter bustle of the rush hour. Outside the urban sprawl of grey concrete fades to lush countryside. On the iron road I am shunted from the stale air of modern life. As the rushing fields blur to a green smudge of colour, I sleep. The spiky fingers of the gorse begin to catch at my coat. The sodden soil oozing soupy liquid as my weight steps down, the struggling grass pressed once more into the damp earth I am drawn into a walled avenue of pine reaching high. Its' cool darkness a shelter from the radiating sun. The scarlet neck of a pheasant darts across my path, absorbed into the undergrowth of crisp bracken, wild bramble. Split trunks lie fallen snapped by the slicing hand of the wind. Ancient stumps decay slowly, the creeping moss forming mounds. A deep gully cuts my route its stagnant water thick with silt, the naked sand of its banks crumbling beneath my boots. The avenue opens to a clearing, green with young shoots, feeble seedlings stretching upwards to the sky for vital rays. A wooden stile the only sign of man's hand in this creation, tenderly touching this beauty, hardly daring to breath. Whispers of wind gently sway the heavy boughs. Shafts of light, long shadows cast on the floor. A sudden jolt as I stumble on a root long exposed. A deep sigh as I rise to a lonely platform and drive home.

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