I am floating on heather again.
A fleece unshorn for fifty years
slips off me, rolls down the hill.
Its tumbleweed won’t stop
till the village where Gary and Bill
wait for me and Emmy unlocks
the corrugated hall and Stahl repairs
his Morris outside Nancy’s shop.
It’s early May. The bleating fields
and the drone of Glyn’s tractor rise.
The sunlight brims with larks.
I am not the man I became
but inside a song, a dazzling stream,
the laughter of friends on the breeze.
