Susan Taylor

He leans, throwing his burly frame into prevailing rain
as proof of Somerset reed’s potency;
willow man morphing his form South West.

He’s a demigod whipped up in wind;
dark force with no hands to connect him back to Devon
as I drive to the North East edge of his region.

He has speed spun into his wrists,
water and live willow lapping his ankles.
Those arms like strikes of lightning carry a charge.

I look at my hands clamped to the wheel of this jeep
and wonder why, in my insulated world, I chase
that heavy diesel tanker out in front.