Memory
At the sky above our house,
(under “the smallest mountain in the world”
Its sturdy shoulder leaning against north winds )
Barbed wire snags the lines along
Cinnamon rusts of autumn`s ferns
Grown over rocks above erupting conifers.
And strikes and bands of it above again
On farther paths stepped out by files of sheep.
Takes me to the top, to stop
And light a match, to fire up smoke,
To take fast the line
That links your hand to mine,
To tie and cloud and wrap myself
Escaping to forget it rapt, to take it up
To you to me to find a truth
I don’t and cannot know
where clear steel panes and planes
And lines of memory merge to points
And single vision is division,
as uncertain as the paths
Of the swirls of swifts,
Where the mercury globes of rain
On thorn hedges on this hill
Run true still with gravity
Downwards: one girl, one face, one place.