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Letters Home (II)
We are searching
(I and the memory of you)
For the lost glade
Where we lay and read
Years ago now, and felt
One another's heartbeat
Like the movement of the earth.
I tore my way through thickets
Where the oak trees were
Swathed in undergrowth
In the gloom of the forest.
You and I had wondered there
Searching for the little river
That ran at the bottom of the cut.
But too late. It was the
Wind whispering in the trees that
Had sounded like water
And we, trapped in thorns,
Had to turn back.
Till we found a break in the trees
And fell on the ground
Breathing the smell of pine
Resting on the sky
And the high-topped trees
And the sound of the thrush
And the whispering brook
Of the oak trees, rustling.
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