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Imprints of our Shoes
We tramp along the fire-trail to see a water view;
Its 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.
A piping melody of hidden butcher-birds in song
Is 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 model train that could fit into 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 back between the trees again; their leaves, our skins are pearled.
A cloudy eiderdown of dew is bandaging the world.
Copyright ©
Jeanette Swan
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