a kestrel unpleats in a patch of violet sky
its mate on the eggs   somewhere   brooding

you walk in silence and like the farmer
I count my stock   eyes shaded

not for the man you were   but for the we
we have become

feet in rhythm   gradient rolling
against us

mud   muffling
the ancient spine that binds these hills

some call it a trudge   the unsure footwork
chalk rubble   tricky as lime

but I love the climb   backwards always behind us
forwards   always ahead