The Day We Walked To Glastonbury

That day we followed the ancient byway that wound round the old farm house, past the new and on sun drenched towards the river Brue. You and I wandered slow, whilst summer's promise swooped down low over green level pastures in which new lambs bleated. Passing incidental hedgerow trees full of bird song, growing free along the drove, we lingered at the grassy edge where orange tipped peacock eyed butterflies danced. Occasionally we glanced towards the sacred tor to mark our way. Meandering talk and country lanes led to Arthur’s court yard, in the Vale of Avalon. Where, to the sound of the Buddhist's Om I walked the healing pool, held by a gentle hand. You waited beneath a budding tree opposite the lion’s mouth kept company by a brambling. I had one too in branches high above, whilst my bare feet were rubbed, with love and unscented oil. I returned to sit beside you and with easy talk you told me of your brambling. That was the day of the apple blossom drop. As we sat together side by side on that bench in the garden of the chalice well with warming eyes you turned to me as clouds of apple blossom fell smiled, and said “I organised that just for you”.