That She Walks

Out of town, just off the
Public trail and to the left
Leap-frog the low barbed fence,
From there I don’t know the way
But every time I lose myself I find it
The place I walk;
The place she walks.

There is a curling brook, limply
Meandering through mossy rocks
Churning the growth lightly into a cream
Texture; it melts with your touch
To her touch, it seems; to her
Eyes where rock meets grass;
Ears with the trickling.

It’s twilight at midday,
Ambient half-light at night,
From a damp Northern-European canopy, and
That same luminescent brook, so I’m
Not sure when I met her, or where,
Like I said:
I lose myself, I find it.

And that’s where I left the body.