Rebecca

Rebecca

She plucks Alexanders from the hedgerow,
stuffs them in the gaps of a clasp
clutching her elderberry hair,
shutterframed from a lens
adorned in soft-straw light.

I snap, watch.
Wren churrs on holly,
dogwood blushes pink,
a primrose tells tales to sisters of peace.
They don't answer.

Together we gather the nettle,
garlic and naval wort,
walk the thinned veins
from Haredon Cross to Sheepham.
- Don't speak to pass time.

Instead we hear wind's whispers,
Winter's unclenched hand,
the lamb bleat on the highland,
a bee upon a 'matis hum,
her feet beat the earth as if prayer drums.

Those fingers lace a plum blossom,
she sniffs the scent, tells me its age,
as if her body might be lost soon
but not the wisdom she brings.
We don't peel that bark back.

I follow her boot marks,
let navigation become innate,
soak up that sweet, unfurling,
the recipe of a new invitation,
some naïve, fleeting, relief.