Six Hills Lane

Spring's low setting sun, sinks into an impenetrable opaque haze

In a trice the road, that was directly ahead, enters another phase

Xanthic smog hoodwinks the unwary, as if it's smoke and mirrors

Hiding a sham diversion, to where only the phantoms are figures

Itinerants who passed this way, were led astray on Six Hills Lane

Leaving naught behind, but their recycled time, in a circling chain

Lost forever, those who perished, upon the salt-way to the Fosse

Still try in vain, to journey to the other-side, but they cannot cross

Left to drift, they're forever alone on a Roman road, in a fires pall

As they relive to die again, without a prescient reference to recall

Now they're the nebulous spectres cast away, like a trail's vapour

Eternally trying to reach the wolds, on the far side of Twenty Acre