Taking the green walk.

Which ever way you approach
This tunnel of green,
Whether from Yarmouth
And the incoming ferry,
Or nearer the Totland end
The experience was much the same.

Underfoot a mossy path,
Dampened by overhanging trees,
Deep puddles to navigate
And the stinging of nettles
In the bracken filled undergrowth;
Adjacent fields where bulls
Occasionally got out of hand,
Charging sporadically and scaring
The birds.

This route was both our outward
And homewards journey,
Taken on family picnics
To Fort Victoria,
A viaduct of small arcades,
With photographs
Of seafaring men lining walls,
And a cafeteria,
Selling limited produce.

Trips to Yarmouth to shop,
Collecting momentoes
And sticks of peppermint rock,
Allowed for the green walk,
Back to the coziness of a chalet.
We use to sing as we walked
The three miles or so,
I looking for blackberries
To take home for tea.

The only difference of route,
Was that of expectation,
The early day high spirits,
Fresh from sleep,
Looking forward to sandwiches
And perhaps an ice cream.
Returning was more arduous,
Tired feet and lagging behind,
The green road seemed longer,
And the holiday
Another day shorter.

Love Mary **