All our notions and ideas,
All our fears and desires,
They pursue us down ever-narrowing rivers,
Down ever-decreasing fields of choice,
Until we are left clutching at leaves,
Autumnal leaves ghostly and dream-like,
Fading and evanescent in the misty dusk.
I remember it well – driving along snow-driven moorland road, my headlights illuminating white diagonal swathes in the silence of that dark white night.
I remember the jakes at school, wet, cold and clammy and the four-hundred-year-old cedar tree on the ancient grass, propped-up by poles.
Poles Convent girls dancing with the pure-at-heart and that brown-eyed lady of the lowlands,
I remember her well.