all the roof & walls. & for miles & miles,

the folly, casting its shadow across the oolitic.

crushed village. bruised day. you marched us

down to the river, the sky atop it like PVC –

our house, distant. shrunk. hugged close

to the church’s ribs – 

…

& like the weeds, we budded around you,

our bent little stems enmeshed & a hope,

pushing out from the limestone, lit up

like strands of thousand flower,

that we could all just stay here.

back along the heathered farm track –

radon, settling in the soft fruit of our lungs.

…

& you, in your beauty. your skin

a rich, whole milk. can I give them that.

we walked & the river turned stagnant,

an old alder dropped across its neck

like a tourniquet – waxy seedheads spewing

in amongst the nymphs & under it all,

…

our wellies. the light kick of march

regreening the village – the sun,

dropping our dog’s tongue like a spoon.

can I tell them what we were saddled with

that drew this river over its banks & into you.

I admit to still being here.

…

so much day – warm & blooming

but then your eyes, their quick black pools –

blue spit is smattered in the little mouths of alkanet.

nettles saw at the catchweed’s wrists.

under the bridge, we used to wade.