She teaches Hannah

We met a shepherdess by a river
she had skin like a dry stone wall
“I used to write poetry” she says
spying our notebooks,
flashing a Diaz smile

but only when I was in love.
She tells us that even though she has retired
she still walks the same routes as when she worked
with just her sheepdog for company.
She tells us that her daughter is on drugs in a Glasgow bedsit
that she cannot remember the last time she ate a meal from a plate
that the only way she can forget about the sad things that happen every day

is to walk the hills.
She tells us routes we should take
and teaches Hannah names of flowers we will pass on our way.
She tells us the legislation
that prevents her from grazing her blind deer in her own back garden
she asks us if we know of anyone that could look after it
and we smile at the though of getting it through the turnstiles

at Ealing Broadway.
She asks us how long we are staying in the cottage,
gets crumpled maps out of her pocket
shows us the way to the waterfalls
and tells us to keep in touch.
On the back of a map she writes down her name and phone number
in handwriting that is far too neat for fields.