It beckons, this spirit-filled mist,
like some earthly firmament; this quilted sage
and moss expanse can blank out a racist
boss; its trails will heal our trials and rage.
We hear the cadence of our breaths
and squelched percussion of our boots,
walking beneath these branches bent
into regal arches; talking till we soothe
our too-full minds, we walk for miles.
Next week we’ll see the heathers bloom.
Like us, some may forget they thrive
until, watched by this full-day moon,
like ancient rocks lying where they please,
we’re couched by this soft earth and these dry weeds.
from A Portable Paradise (Peepal Tree Press, 2019), © Roger Robinson 2019, used by permission of the author and the publisher.