With wandering eyes that travelled wide
she walked along with timorous gait
past early springtime’s stretching growth
that glistened damp from early dew,
past gurgling rills and tailored thorn,
down paths of gravel, grit and stone.
And bounded by a wire that looped
from picket post to picket post,
a snug and sheltered spot enclosed,
in solitude with no distraction
and haunting sense of isolation,
she sat upon the swaying sward.
And to the gentle breeze that blew,
she sang soft words in harmony,
forgotten soon and not recalled,
as voices often heard in sleep
and echoes deep in cavities
that lie along a distant shore.
Michael Edwards © April 2017