On Hills

I’ll lie with a sun at my feet
& a moon above my head
[flit birds intone] – at blind
north you are nine-ish km
from my swoon where we
had undressed [stretching
& bathed – but not in rain]

Your unchecked meadow
is a rule-broken hill – slips
of grass & breakfast hens
[an incline of nature-sent
breaths] – I’ll cycle to you –
my captured heart rate is
safe [no concerns for now]

Old ways – a basket arced
from skinned brambles &
other wonders – hands-on
matters too – honesty rips
thornish – you pull my tear
of thin skin & usher me to
your own [here deer graze]

Nine-ish thousand stroams
of to-be-discusseds wait on
our auld Bartholomew Map
of Lost Empires – our times
are not to be contained [we
were made in empire days –
you a flesh map of marks &

I am yet to read yours] Slip
me time – before collisions
& cataclysms [not knowns]
to untie my tied-down body
from moon-sun alignments –
then I’m free – laid out – your
rule-broken hill to astrict us

as lovers – no pulley-weight
or worn-gearing of recalls –
not enough to re-route each
of us – there’s a path that is
marked by green dashes on
my OS map – spitting north –
we will walk on it – it calls

without clumsy 3D heights –
best seen from at your feet –
travelled naked – backpacks
left at our bedroom door – I
will allay my afear of heights
to climb with you & so belay
your choice of rope & routes