When the past pokes through
Sometimes on a dark, quiet night —
You see the dip in the road where the river ran.
You imagine trees where a house grew up
And leaves instead of lights, if you can.
In the mist a church follows your eye,
Trees with mossy vests huddle as woods.
Your walk gives out onto the great water,
Once full of shouts and wondrous goods.
Back to the road, stern cobbles rear up —
To trip, to remind, and to share
Their load of cars with the tarmac.
How many years do they bear?
After the thaw, the grass grows swiftly —
In the path of small dogs and large birds,
Next to the frames of the iron shore.
This place is for walking, not words.
