Past the Well Hill’s slope of houses, like secret lives, the glossed birds hide familiar songs carried out to waters, settling with those flecks of promise, heckling with the tide. A path of leaves, dusty, trodden flat, that widens through a slant of trees that was once a railroad track, that’s now a ‘Greenfield Valley’ walk and here, with guileless hope, I kick through these spills of russet, dig deep beneath melts of snow to feel the cut and twist of root, that faint awareness of its touch, as this brief connection grows Cold like the cloud’s brief skulk and then mocked by wren and crow, its memory, that scours through naked trees, for a brief reminder of that moment’s fluke yet lost within the shadows That hurries me, through a fall of stones, copper-coiled and slick scents of wild garlic, the mill-pool frosted a mirror of flaxen reeds, a flurry of starlings’ thick Wings settling in old abbey walls, nestled in the hollows, dark eyes sunlit a glint of stone basking in the ruins, throwing a line to me, yet severed by the thought of it.
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