Walking Away

We have walked here before,

where the ground is uneven,

where the path is not a path,

but for the determination of feet.

And the mechanics of motion

rise to consciousness

so that one heel is placed first

to grip the momentum,

the side of a foot reaches the earth next,

steadies,

to relaunch again from toes,

leg to leg, stride to stride,

we go on.

A field rests in brown folds,

churned and in gestation,

we venture further than in the past,

where the wind's words are wilder,

where birdsong shifts our own tongues

to an inner silence.

The sun basks on the closed buds

of our faces, unfurls them,

it shatters glisks of light

upon the skin of the river

that ripples a new glassiness

to haze our jaded eyes.

The trees rattle still vacant branches,

they are open-armed -

we have belonged in these moments

together,

though again now, the question emerges,

and nudges for some internal direction

because when we walk away,

we can't help but wonder what it is

that we're heading towards.

Image my own, from a walk. Word 'glisk' stolen from a man on twitter. I am unabashed. I liked the word.