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