Imprints of our Shoes

We tramp along the fire-trail to see a water view; The sand is damp from morning rain, and imprints of our shoes Are stamping in beside the chequered tracks of cycle tyres As Brett relates the names of trees and flowers we admire. Ahead of all the others, Catherine strides for fitness’ sake, Behind her we are chatting as we walk a slower pace, The little child among us plays with his MacDonald’s toy; We bring the city with us like a trundling horse of Troy. Repeated fluted notes of hidden butcher-birds in song Are drawing us to scan the treetop places they belong, And there a pair of wanderers, two orange butterflies, Are touching wing to wingtip as they bumble through the skies. Horizons panoramic – hill to hill of living green, And valleys dipped in liquid blue, are all that can be seen, Except a mini-motor-boat that writes in straight white bands, Except a distant model train that's smaller than my hands. And then a misting rain begins to smudge the lines with grey, And boats and trains and roads and homes in fog are blurred away. We walk again between the trees; their leaves, our skins are pearled: The gentle dew of innocence falls softly on the world.