Crow Wood

I had never been there before
So your presence comforted me.
Down the mud-pie bank
And up the other side,
My green wellingtons stained
Brown up to the ankle.
Your feather finger tickled the palm of my
Hand: such a Kingdom.

Into the trees.
A tiny footpath unwinds;
Carved by the steady pendulum
Of visitors to the wood -
Your childhood.
The trees are aflame
With reds, oranges, browns -
A postcard proof of September.
Leaves tumble and spin
Wild yet gentle to the floor
Where they knit a fiery carpet of crunch.

The remains of an old burt car
Struggle to stay afloat above
The swallowing earth.
Over, under, through
We go deeper and our surroundings thicken.
Through, under, over
The path is lost now,
I know nothing but you and the fullness of young love.