Hindleap 

Winter's thrown a grey net 
over the day, it's caught
moss-felted trees, inevitable mud 
and the rags of rooks' nests. 

We used to come here all the time
when I was a kid. We had picnics 
and spotted the place with dalmatians
who stole our sandwiches and rolled in fox.

Now the colours have faded. 
Winter storms have spread branches. 
The floor is a miniature forest: twigs
stick up and I'm a giant, squelching through.

I follow path rivers, down
till I reach the valley and the small stream
that's almost clear but orange-bottomed
chalybeate, like it's fed by rusty pipes. 

I've no clue where I am (often the way: 
I leave the car park, full of confidence 
till I reach the place that asks
What if you never get back?). 

I sit on the stream's side in cold
January leaves and write about loss. 
Water flits beneath the bridge. 
There's a sieve's worth of sunlight

and the trees are dripping, but 
the path's turn is mine too - I've 
a cold bottom and the birds know who I am:
I'm the mouth of the stream.

The stream stands up, climbs the hill. 

                                                   22nd January

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This poem can be found in Ashdown and an early draft of it first appeared in Agenda: New Generations.