I am hemmed in
by rhododendrons
and poor-fruit
rusty brambles,
here part-hidden,
with lost headstones,
by bleached grasses,
I am waiting for you
(sat on Sarah Newlyn’s
berry-stained bench,
with my cooled coffee
and folded ‘paper),
under a flight path,
itself dubbed over
by the bubbled
squabble of birds
in the thickets
and tremoring hedges,
as loud crows plot
the distances in air
with their deep caws
and dark eyes,
their navigation
is fixed by sight.
And you set down
beside me, beautiful,
with your return,
into our hidden hold.
