ECLOGUE


Anything from a polecat to a dryad

could be stepping from this wood

into Tuesday light but it is you,

ten years back down the Ridgeway path.

Hitching up those jeans, you reach to take

my hand, palm off doubt, knuckle faith

onto ringless fingers. This isn’t you

– this feral stuff – low impulse being

more my thing but that day you push me

up against a tree as old as Silbury.

We emerge from the thicket-gloom aglow

with escape and getting away with it;

it an as yet indeterminate: some fuzzy

co-ordinate on a half-sketched map.


Today I stick to the downland track

that skirts the spot, though stop to look.

Anything from a polecat to a dryad

could be stepping from the wood

into this light but it was you,

among the things I could not see.