The alternative guidebook leads
to a partially cleared space in the forest,
but the next page has been ripped out.
What is it I’m supposed to be looking for here?
A flint arrowhead lodged
in the trunk of an ancient oak?
The spot where Janáček sat and composed?
Is this the furthest point from the coast?
Sometimes I go upstairs
then can’t remember why.
And when did these flower-arranger’s hands
at the ends of my arms
But I like this place, where a blimp crash-landed,
where ley lines cross,
where a trapdoor leads to an underground church
hewn from a seam of coal, where the sterling silver shoes
from a lost team of sacred horses
are still occasionally unearthed.