The path led nowhere, just ended in bulrushes
hiding a marshy bog, and I slipped in
up to my ankles. A kingfisher flew up and away
alarmed at my expletives, as I struggled to retrieve
a boot. The rustle of the rushes swaying in the breeze
like a ripple of laughter, followed me up the path,
fading as I plunged deep amongst the clinging downy birch,
bird cherry and hawthorn, searching for the place
where we last sat together.

High above, the ash and sycamore
waved their tall branches in a dance and I gazed upwards,
earth bound, and alone, longing to spring into their arms.
Around my feet the fragile flowers of dog’s mercury,
And nodding bluebell crowded, calling for me
To rest among them, and as I sank down, I saw
Shyly tucked behind a twisted oak root the delicate forget- me- not.
This was the spot.

Drusilla Long

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *