The Path

by Alan Hardy

The winter sun

pinpoints pools of water

amidst lush green,

excess,

rising levels,

like paddy fields.

These trails

we tread,

in the summer sun,

when we discovered them,

were as sweet,

walked them in the brush

of its hotness

on our face,

the warm, hushed air

we took in.

There’s a clammy stillness,

a bareness we glance over,

a muddiness we pick our way through.

We are patient.

We are satisfied with

mild taps on hooded head,

bodies’ shudders,

hesitant feet on icy paths,

drained-colour version

of summer’s vast heat,

and abundance of green growth

obscuring our view of

what, chill and parched,

would surround us.