Green folds of Devon toppled into jags of rock,
cathedrals were piled like cairns
on roads that straggled into moor or fen
or left us clinging to each other at Land’s End,
fog deep in our throats.
We stood on a Roman wall
railing at cold rain, sentinels
to some grief that never attacked.
I had always traveled alone,
but no matter where we dropped to sleep
letting our hands go lax-
even if geese cackled us up at dawn
or bells brayed in unfamiliar tongues—
our bodies moved as if one pilot
steered them on. Now we are home
and drive our separate routes to work.
I am less vigilant for loss,
too often wake drifting down
the wrong side of the road.
Hazards
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