An avalanche of white thorn
hanging above
our heads
in hazel twilight.
The night lights of
bluebells
thick around our
feet,
faint silvery
gleam of lake
between the trunks of trees,
birdsong everywhere.
These ancient walls whose stones
are moss-softened green pillows
are the skeleton
of a lifestyle that once was.
Hand-built
scripts of lake-side
dwellers
vanishing
in the evening light,
in the centuries’ accumulation
of
humus and leaf-litter.
Cryptic now, fragmentary;
no
longer connected to their meanings;
too
remote from their builders to
carry
the poignancy of their passing;
we
stop a moment
to admire a bend on the pathway:
white-petalled, luminous.
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