in a quiet hollow on the far side of this field
rain patters through the leaves
like twinkling glass; white sky
snow globe dome. a thousand translucent
serpents of smoke, charmed by wind’s invisible hand,
curl upwards from the chimneys at the wood’s edge.
archaeologist – the mud of the path is wet,
the grey stones shards of bone:
fragments, cold and clear.
I crouch, a child by a rock pool,
to see branches reflected in a puddle.
spider-web, wind-whisper, opalescent:
tracing silver snail slithers with my finger
over white cathedrals; the fat bulbs
of mushroom caps, pale fossils
by my feet. I walk a hundred years forward
and another hundred years back.
