FUNKY POSTCODE

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?