Time walks the hills in different measure these days:

pale wood anemones birth early and bluebell spears

thrust up with frost-thoughts hardly buried.

June stitchwort blooms in May and ‘eggs-and-bacon’

runs through grass like kindergarten children

released before the bell.   Stark heather

colours the hill tops long and late;  November,

and the rowans have barely turned.


The wind is in my face and my throat churns

with an uneasiness that’s hard to explain.

So long I’ve walked through seasons trusting

time’s rhythms, stepping out the days.

Changes are subtle but I know I, too,

no longer measure time as I once did.


Searching for rhyme or reason clouds the head.

Better, perhaps, to savour it as it is.

I’ll hug the cold, draw breath, watch berries drop.

If they drop late, I’ll live in hope of early

snowdrops laced along the lane

and being there in time.

© 2018, Patricia Leighton

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