Downward Plod

Briars scrape my flailing hand, a fly drones overhead.
Prickly hedges drip with beads of squashed black fruit basking in a sticky sun-lit mist.
Down this quaint unearthly country lane I tread.
Some strange presence, a mockingbird sixth sense casts its unseen ring of watchful silence.
The drooping branch that creaked- a spore-shedding fern, an ominous ripple or dash.
Imagined signal from an imprint long buried, long forgotten.
Ouch, you stung my ankle - spiked green thistle.
Buffoon, sneak, playful oafish imp,
Joker in a deep craggy hollow.
Past issues seep eerily through the echo of my downward plod.
Some jagged rock peeps slyy  upwards, straight up  through that wild and weedy labyrinth where tortured souls dock.
A startled creeper darts from tree to tree,
shaken by the banshee scream that filled the air with trauma. Was that me or me hallucinating? The poor creeper cowers.
As the sun draws down its hazy blind  old batted eyelids squint.
The sultry heat's my backpack on this heavy limbed march.
I gulp clay bake air, gasping, sos, leaf green dew please slake this unquenchable thirst.
Is this a cul-de-sac that bears the blistered feet inside my leather?
Or did I hear the bustle of a dim and distant road?
Relief road, release - eternal memory chaser fly.
Methinks the startled creeper knew something - I plod on.