On Beacon Hill

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