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First footing
The lane seems longer on sickroom legs.
In the hedge bluebells hang from drying stalks
colour leached well-washed denim blue. Cowslips
whisper of summer wine. Hazels build future
nuts for field mice. The last May bloom drifts
soft and fading where the earth was bare.
For much has happened while I've been away.
The hill feels steeper on shaky legs.
A stick-propped rest is needed several times
on the way to the waiting gate. Oh but the
air is sweet and the rain feels good and the
wind is welcome on my face. The poplars
line-dance on my right, singing their own soft song.
For much has happened while I've been away.
The gate stands, though, and the view is there.
The sky reaches cloud towered lark sung
rook torn gull cried over to the hills where
rain squalls dance taunting along the tops.
I'm back again. I'm back again and the field
paths beckon kindly. Down to the river and
along the bend, round the oak copse and back
again. Tomorrow I'll walk a little further.
Today, I'll lean on the gate.
Somerset 1998
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