there is a small kingdom at the top,
seen from here
speckled across the old landscape,
where the mowers never reach.
the buckle held firm,
gravity took hold, but kinder men spoke
and the words lifted me,
gravy soaked, the fat dumpling belly full
would last the day.
the rest would come soon.
I reached it with hands on my knees
a whole lifetime of grasses between my feet,
I had never dreamt I would leave.
and there, there it was,
born amongst the elms and oaks
carved open and spliced
by the moving, shifting waters of the stream.
this faint pattern I wear
etched into the scene,
your fingertips traced them
when you shared the path with me.