In one hundred and twenty hours
I’ll be there on the high Downs
with you,
chalk squeaking under my feet
as I taste the sour-sweet breath
of cow parsley and gorse.
The silent valley will be
shadow-drenched,
and every blade of scrubby grass
will pierce my heart.
You’ll be in the highest place of all,
your arms flung wide
to the clouds.
November 2002
