Later, at a better time, on a better day
we’ll walk the blossom tunnel
of Thorney Lanes, from Gorsty Hill
to the kissing gate at Hoar Cross.
We’ll climb Buttermilk Hill’s
purgatory incline and, at the top
hurdle the stile with the electric
skin-prickled vigour of budding days.
Light footed, we’ll dance, you and I
roar defiance across the meadows
to Woodroffe’s Cliff, numbering off
the long seconds till the echo.
The hedgerow scandalmongers
will pause their garrulous congress
open throated gossips, carrying the news
on fluttering air down to Newborough.
On that day, the lane will reorder itself
and we’ll see it renewed, a slight thing
despite its years, and in its rain filled ruts
laugh at our bulletproof reflections.