My Feet Decide

I was chatting to a crow, just the other day,

talking about this and that, with nothing much to say.

A hedgerow creature came along and entered in the fray;

we chewed the fat a little while, before she went away.

My itchy feet began to move and body went along,

as if beguiled by some bewitching, grinding reggae song.

We took ourselves a little while along the furrowed track,

marching feet obeyed the beat, never looking back.

I notice a mischievous thought, out two steps ahead.

I pinch it on its juicy butt and put it back to bed.

Out here amongst the gorse and brine, the feet are where it’s at,

padding through the dewy grass, dodging this and that.

There’s not the space for wayward thoughts, for brains on overdrive.

The feet know best, they always do.

I trust them to decide.