After Russian caravans

Mapped into a mouthful of day,
Recorded in crunches given to ground,
We mark our way in treads and sounds, here
Ivy greens the memory stones,
Weaving over peaceful sleeping,
That footsteps cannot stir.

I find smile eyed surprise
At unexpected birds, the silent grace
Of foreign wing tips
Grazing on the Winter
Of this south-east sky: an occasional aeroplane,
A dog wobbles by.

Standing in the still,
The light in your laughter gentles the cold, here
The trees drawn back
Open curtains on a view;
You trace for me a river on the distance,
Quiet me with your truth.