Through an Office Window

I am not at work hearing a service user say
the tremors were bad this morning,

he’s been told it could be years or weeks
but he’s got no intention of stopping,

I’m walking the ridge, crossing dependable fields
between rooftops and clouds to the farm.

And my dad is not in bed in the afternoon
but pottering in his garden – he is this neighbour

walking through apple trees into my view
who stoops to pick up one of last night’s windfall

and carries it to the bench in the late
spring light to enjoy the sweetness.

Crumbs

We’re following
the crumbs
we left for ourselves

back through the wood,
looking for the place
where we began.

We think it might
still be there
below a confetti of stars,

but we’ve wandered so far
through the bracken
and heather,

we’ve lost sight
of which path
– if any – is ours.

At night we lie
in the dark,
listening

to the canopy hum,
trying to decipher
its meaning,

unsure if that weeping’s
the wind or ourselves,
and at dawn

we pick up the trail,
sensing something
moving closer

through the trees,
hoping it’s only
love hiding.