Ockham Mill

It took me too long to understand the sharp angst
of winter; the frozen canals, the loss of life to a deep
hibernation. Ridges of hard mud would press into
the arches of our feet. Yet still we walked passed
Ockham Mill and on to the wide common flats where
vast numbers of lapwings, flown from the Balkans
would gather. We would try not to wander far but
when we turned for home it always seemed a painful
distance and the dark would be drawing down swiftly.
On occasion, the worry of the impending twilight
would make us drop the pieces of firewood we had
collected and unburdened we would hurry through the
wooded paths searching for the lights of houses.
It seems like long ago. I began to understand those
times after I had been away for many years. I returned
home and began to gather the old familiar scents,
shades, mouthfuls of spices and I kept myself safe
only opened the door to the ones I chose to love.
Looking over this city and under the pale remote sky
I remember the mill, the lapwings and the green and
russet flash of a pheasant darting in the undergrowth.