Ambling Fleet

 
 
I've wandered beyond my shadow  
to where the sunlight tapers off through canopies of dark green trees  
and darker still  
the limbs and seeds.  
I have seen egrets here,  
dropwort and driftwood curled  
into the shape of a slumbersome badger,  
no one perishes the thought.  
 
I wouldn't mind  
if you happened to  
walk with me a while,  
down the verge and track,  
edged by ferns,  
scored by beech,  
we can divert  
from the shine of the beach's mouth  
to follow the upward line, slide,  
guide bodies along the slip of river  
to where silt has cavernous hands  
and the liquid of Erme  
lays in her pit.  
 
We can share  
water from an unsealable tin  
so we don't shrivel,  
miles out,  
like sultanas or dates.  
 
I could reunite you  
with the origins of tree signs,  
latin and common,  
botanical names,  
the types of cloud that lace the skies  
and you,  
you can cover me in the identifications of birds,  
I've never known how to name what I've heard  
but would know  
the sound of a 'v' of geese  
long before they'd measured  
the river's breadth.  
 
You can watch the sun  
set and I'll savour flecks of it  
left in the basins of my irises,  
turns them more acid green,  
turns them more light,  
and when the sky deflects,  
dresses herself black,  
beckons to bed,  
I'll go on further,  
all by myself,  
speak well of the hedgehogs,  
make a burrow a home.  
 
You could visit sometimes,  
I'll leave a bell on a string.  
 
Inspired by Andrea Gibson.