Just Be There
Set aside an afternoon alone in Spring,for Buscot's green secrets to gather you in. Merciless miles etch their finite fire, like landmarks on the arches of branded feet.Each stile inclined to creak its mortal memoin the grinding of your knee. Until the blinding clash of sun and water strikes, invites you to the weir.The white cascade creates a bass,skimming dragonflies breaking its bubblesborn and burst, born and burst. Then you meet the only eyes to know or care.And she doesn't know or care.Those eyes that belong to her.A grazing doe, delicate as the dance of dayShe sees you first, just as you will see her,not noticing your nakedness.Only the same outfit she wears everyday. The cold squelch of the muddy bank congeals,providing the tapering stairway you ask of it, moistening and molding.Earth to earth.At the edge it is deep, the thrilling fearof nowhere for your feet.In the centre it is shallow with rocks concealed,unplanned perfection. Shout your questions into the cavernand let your heart explode with the answer of your echo.Leave your purse with the poppies and your watch with the hare.Just be there.