Out the car window, across some field or other
I wonder what it is like to stalk straight through the crops
to that lone tree, whimsical in its crooked solitude,
to not be bound by paths or fences or fells worked by farmers
and simply stride to my destination as a fox would scurry
or raven would fly, or a child not yet taught to follow.
And what would happen when I reached the tree?
Would I look back to the road, my car abandoned —
or would I clamber over its branches and carry on
forever through fields and rivers, stumbling over mountains?
But the tree disappeared a good mile back —
and I lost all sense of wonder.
Rebecca Riddell is a copywriter by day and a poet/wannabe novelist by any time past 4:30pm. Born and bred in Wakefield, West Yorkshire, she can usually be found writing feminist, queer, and neurodivergent poetry and prose, struggling to finish her first novel, or wondering where it all went wrong. She still hasn’t figured that last one out. She is published in a handful of anthologies and is currently working on her first full poetry collection (scary). You can find her on Instagram @r.a.riddell.