Here’s the lichened gate, pale as willow,
and that bare tree, limbs jutting skyward.
Was it here, washed and still
the meadow beckoned: betony, eyebright, self-heal?
Now even sound has altered. Oak leaves shifting.
Birdsong unease. The lane darker, deeper.
Still we seek comfort in small things:
stonecrop, speedwell to send us on our way.
We forget how quickly light changes everything,
how nothing stays the same.
Gorselands, June 2012
We step across wide water,
taking our time. Breathing:
it’s taken most of our life.
You shout and I can’t look back.
Water dark as guinness –
what made us think we could risk it?
Out here in the middle
the river fizzes faster.
Too late to turn back.
Green rocks now,
lank weed stranded,
every one a slippery stretch
and the far bank receding.
Alone together, balancing,
too far apart to clasp.