The Trembling Heath

Ah, for those precious moments alone, with every dream, every hope, and each imagined failing. As if for the first time, you see your house on the edge of the moor, suppertime done, the dim lamps burning; it’s almost on a hill. You close your eyes, and hug the gnarled trunk: your father, the wind in his hair. How young he once was! How old he is now! And your mother, your sisters, your brother; his walking stick; your ferocious, gentle hound. You turn around: sweet peace: the trembling heath: a burial ground.

[ 2005 ]