This wind-tunnel world
waters the eyes
whilst deep-time, wild sentinels
are tickled by ferns fingers,
granite wave-beds
green-veined by generations
of feather, wool and mane
give rise and fall and rise
to peaks of denuded witnesses,
who, persisting in noble service
offer kindness in the lee,
steer to those
hunkered in the soak and stumble,
dressed in all the wrong clothes,
stung by the mire-fly,
slipping on glossy gifts,
dark pearls set amongst precious clots
of orchid and scabious.
There is wisdom here,
in the folded outline of trees,
in the slow, silt-laden trickle
that has given root to ash and beech
in the moss-wrapped seclusion
that we, as graced guests,
may pass though open-handed,
and pray that what light lingers there
might carry our next steps.