There is no icon for the heavy tractor
bringing hay in from a hot field
or the green bus silently moving up the far hill.
There is no sign for a forgotten scarf
by the water’s edge
or the clack of pebbles
dragged back by the sea.
There is no line for the lark rise
or the tern’s knife dive.
There is no colour for the echo
of a conversation on the beach
as the mist slips in.
Only the returning path is mapped
and an almost empty car park.