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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