Bleating within your imagination 
you tell me after isolation finally finishes
on an unexpected telephone call
you would stroll down to Shipley Woods
and hold the air in your hands
like a lost friend the first time you can
before perspiring under broken clouds,
 
saying you would quiver in the leaves
like you were stood on the last place on Earth
hallucinating in a merry fury
trying not to frighten the
horses in the meadows
and the Owls
that lead all the way to Newton Hall,
 
and  you would throw your voice up
you would start paying attention to friends
whom you haven’t spoken to in ages
and stop stomping around everywhere
at 100 miles per hour
miles from where I stood
clearly forgetting how much I had moved on.