Ignition's off - the music stops.
The man steps out of the machine,
stretches the muscles in each leg
(every time the same routine)
then locks the car and then sets off
along the road edge, teeters through
the cattle-grid, then jumps the gate.
The grassy hillside's wet with dew.
Stereoscopic eyes research
each footfall, plan routes in and out
of tussocks, rocks and rabbit holes
(the stuff the fell-side's all about).
A GPS of sorts, built in,
(impervious to Allen keys,
part of the logoless machine),
locates the summit-path with ease.
Back at the car, the music on,
the hill's a landscape under glass.
Hands and feet engage controls:
the two machines, a single mass.