Processing Peace

We stand to look at a flustering ledge

Where a heron judges the when

To wedge its weight into spills of wind

Beyond the grip of silt,

Guarding our silence until you urge

My forward helpfulness.

Here, where grass folds to bandage breeze,

Only tree-birds chide. The kingfisher reigns

As a haze of slate arrow and honed wings

Of smoke in space made for carving.

Elsewhere, the muddle of undergrowth,

Darkness and coils - I stop myself

So we step back, dry-shod, though over our heads

Rain, or melted hail, slips from leaf to leaf

Staccato, playing sycamore keys,

Sliding like a wish impossible to keep

And let drop without promise of the miracle

Piano notes for our footling track.