A low sun fuzzes the tree line mistily at Parker’s Piece,
and the sounds of stunt cyclists become a funky groove.
Halogen headlights wanly pierce the aerosphere and
a plane crucifixes across, above. I am returning,
I am returning to the postcode where my spirit thrives.
Did I hear somebody thinking out loud, “Where is this?”
Do I wish to spoil the magic by explaining?