COUNTRY HIKE

it's sunday morning, and i'm walking
in happy solitude, along a country road
among overgrown verges, fields high with
oilseed rape, air damp with an impending
early summer storm. i've forgotten it is
waendel weekend, when everybody walks
for charity. suddenly there's a group behind
me power-walking, their footfalls all in
unison sound like one ragged, clopping
horse--which is what i think it is
until they pass and an old man says hello.
i look behind and here come more, singles,
couples, two guys in army uniform, then
eight soldiers singing "blow and suck, suck
and blow, taught her everything she know"
and scoutmasters, and Chinese, and young
women with sinless clean faces strolling
alongside their grandfathers and greeting
everybody as if we still do that nowadays.
and entering the next village i see a tent
approaching with a van of scouts parked
near and ladies in the austere black get-up
of the St John's Ambulance Brigade waiting
with eager faces to discuss your blisters
with you, or agree that it's a lovely day
though we might get thunder later. it's a
carnival. i've never seen so many people
out on sunday on the back roads intruding
on my perfect peace. i cross before i hit
the tent and go in the opposite direction
to the others, towards a narrow turn under
a dark canopy of trees.a lady serving juice
calls out "my love! not that way! you have
to follow them"--pointing to a group of walkers
receding round the stone side of a cottage
chatting volubly. i wave as if i don't speak
english, and carry on along my route.
i'm heading for deeper country, where the only
people i will see are sheep and lambs,
and the occasional unitelligible farmer
waving a twelve bore in my face