Journal December

 
She wants the bite of slick country memories,
to drive over county lines, take that long hike
 
--
A place that greens far from dark whiskey,
another space foreseen she'd lose sense of time.
 
It's the hue of wide pine rows, the crag, small leat
that leaks from aloft and bleeds off a hill.
 
It's the ache after walking,
the weight of her kit,
the scent of still mist
evaporating from land.
 
It's the quiet, an ice
that kisses each freckle
and reminds still muscles  
to be steady but roam.
 
And it's there where the woodlands
can call to reclaim her,
take all stresses  
as if dampened clothes.
 
She'll sink into that river,
grateful for aching,
replenishing is complicated,  
she's swept away on the Moor.