She made a bridge with her toes;
Clinging uselessly to my thighs,
And the frailty threw us around
Mixing our hearts with
Saturday in the vineyard,
Transparent glances all along the field walk,
To a flavour and a moan.
That was the never time,
When money spiders span oak branches
And held meetings
To decide the next phase of the moon.
And we felt the blackbird’s breath,
And the beat of it’s wings on our breasts,
And the passing clouds over Berkshire villages
Were as sturdy as Victorian aquaducts,
Whilst the fruits of our crafts and our labours
Were soft as steam in the air.
She made a bridge with her little toes,
As frail as frozen grass,
But everywhere about us
Rang out in beautiful song.
[Photo: ‘Hiding Your Light’ by Ailsa Naumann]