Return to River Path

I used to know these woods,

above, the bright sky patterned with bare branches,

below, the path well worn, dead twigs

and leaves packed down, an easy walk.


My camera-hand is chilled, at the ready

and my nostrils take in frozen wet ground,

green beginnings, my cheeks nipped.


I hear the river’s music from below, a fast flow

mingled with the motorway’s indifferent roar.

Above, a crow cries out.


Alone and safe, concealed here,

I want to run free on this childhood path,

and I do, find joy, forget myself.


Ahead, a well-remembered Ash all clothed in ivy,

has fallen, blocked the way, much larger than I knew.

Instead of turning it to firewood, someone has made

a way round, a bypass path, with fairy tale steps.


This is the mosses’ time,

the bare trees wait to start again,

buds not fat, but ready.


Katy Ewing


The Temple: Diary

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