We walked home this way every school day

for seven years, across the field, the grass

in summer long and wet wetting hems

and cuffs or pulled seeding in our hands;

along the lane, cow parsley greeting us

like old men. There were nettles to be skirted,

an abundance of red and purple admirals

not seen this last wet decade, skip of wren

from wall nook to nook, rare start of hare

or stoat and by July the one white foxglove.

In winter the path frosted with sugared lace

and you marveled at the iced puddles as if

the intricate carvings were a miracle never

before seen. After dark we walked hand

in hand under constellations – Orion,

Cassiopeia, Little Bear – turning in the sky

as the months turned us towards spring;

the moon we saw through full and quarter,

sometimes rising like a huge white balloon,

sometimes ringed with clouds like bruises.

We walked in rain and snow and sun, talked,

talked about what now I don't remember

only see the movement of your hands, two small

kites pulling on the strings of your thoughts.

You were never lost and only ever once afraid:

when I got drunk at New Year and fell

in the ditch. Home was always there, waiting

at the end of the muddy drop to the road.