Ruth

Passing a the field with a basket of blackberries
I remember why I like Ruth.
She sticks sentences out at an angle
and asks a leaf what happened to detail.

She notices a blackbird, struck dumb
with wondering where the world went.

She wants to know if here
footsteps have the same history,
what happens when it snows

does my heart swallow beats
and like a clock part
tick perfect as sleep
beneath my contact lense lungs.

If I am in the field
and burried in a basket of blackberries,
sure as greenfly on an apple
I would still like to listen.

She takes off her glasses
wipes clean the vegtable steam
segregates her hair into a plait
holds me still with a clutch of coriander
a knock of lime.