Lost Times

It was at this time of year

We went up on the forest

And sunk

Bright boots through sheets of frosted leaves

Into the boggy

Earth which ran beside the stream,

Catching our breath on blades

Of icy air.

Barrels of warmth we rolled on matted bracken;

Flesh spindles, senseless, clumsy through layer upon layer

Of woollen insulation.

Then as our heat was lost we jumped about

More furiously than before

And often reached the car cold, choked on angry tears.

Streaming eyes and noses, steamy windows,

We drove home wedged into the back seat,

Then round the fire we

gradually

unwound,

Shedding scarves and gloves and surplus socks, drip-

ping into mugs of chocolate,

Clutching cake in clammy fists,

Chattering....

The world

Was small

"Time" was something adults worried about.

(For us there was too much)

Now the forest echoes

Other voices.

I'd go back there again tonight,

But know I'll stay instead, to write.