The Path
That winds out of the wood, towards the ferns — Beeches, ghost-elms and horse-chestnuts guard The meadows and the rides that slope downhill Through midge-crowded evenings, rustling grasses . . .
She rode bareback here while I trotted behind With some new-found words for her to keep in mind When she sat staring at the sun-stunned playing fields From a stifling classroom, as I did, miles away . . .
Those endless weekday afternoons! The park still yields The freedom of twelve, thirteen, when it was all play And deadly serious, when ‘going out together’ meant Lying in a prickly, leaf-lit, fern-laced tent, Fumbling at zips; flushed and flustered, taking turns To pluck the twigs and insects from each other’s clothes and hair . . .
Gone, all that, Gone like a never perfectly recalled air But it is the same path, I am following her still Or pedalling home at sunset, breathing hard With some lines of Edward Thomas on my tongue To offer her once more in homage as she passes, And she leans down, laughing, thirteen years young.
Alan Jenkins
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