I stumble over moss-draped slate
protruding like vertebrae
beside the flooded quarry
abandoned a century ago.
Just off the path a village
of toadstools from fairy tale pages
is sheltered by a holly bush;
an exoskeleton of spikes
protects each spine.
A squirrel spirals the blackened
outline of an alder tree.
I remove one red glove,
select a blackcurrant wine gum.
Losing our way has become a ritual.My face is needle-cold.