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