Swaling

The long hill took us here 

passed the stone-jammed wall 

the bleating of worried sheep

displaced like waves at the prow 

slate-splintered inclines 

the gorse we’d fired so hard that year

the mountain like a sun 

burnt my tear-stained cheeks             

to the finish. The Big Stone

shaped and settled for eons

age shrunk

captured clambering generations

poised at the top. 

Our path. 

Our place.

I know it so well 

where we’d pause to share a flask

catch our breath slipped 

I’d reached for your hand. 

Peering through the bedroom window 

to the long hill 

where sheep bleat and moan

you reach for mine.

The path goes on. 

A single track 

flanked by wet stone sheep gorse.

Draining the flask - I drink in 

every last drop 

the rain drips inside 

my coat 

my bones cold skin wet as the mist

rising to greet me.

Empty

I remember the new growth 

waiting beneath the gley. 

Divide the miserable ground and carefully 

light the downhill edge.