The Minnoch dapples, fly-danced.
At noon we find a shiver on the water
suggesting stars at midnight.
Round a bend in the path there are trees
which have fallen and wrapped one another
in limbs, like lovers.
Soaking wet bracken and grasses muffle this
September wood. Thin pink heather
and purple scabious light it.
Here vast stones stopper a dyke-end
where a dead thorn tree blurred with moss
lurks like its own ghost.
We walk, and lichen flowers
on every fallen branch and acorns split
and green at every step.
We breathe in oak-air, laced
with draughts of peat and the sudden
swing of a jay.