In the wild land
between Ben Avon and Gairnshiel
between black snow and white wind
there is a passing place
where spirit brushes flesh
clouds shift shapes
and brown is the colour
of my true love’s eyes
In the heather, footprints can just be seen
reaching upwards, almost hidden:
the road like a juggler
throws, then catches
nine times out of ten,
and I keep passing.
This is the place:
enchantment is a wound
that reopens.
I pass again.