The black splat shape of the ragged rook

the egg-smooth hoot of the owl sailing.

The skittering bat goes back and forth

as we walk up the deep dark lane.

High hedges make a secret path

cushioning the sides of our home journey.

A confetti of moths scatter in our wake

an escort for our returning.

The torch is abandoned,

the night is so pretty

we follow our noses

across the wide fields.

The stiles, we remember,

old friends of great character

they will not trip us,

help us up and over.

The footpath gleams softly,

a light that is tracing,

more prominent to us

when our eyes look away.

Don’t worry, don’t concentrate,

let the soft evening guide us.

We hold hands on our doorstep

at the end of the day.

for M, two years, still missed  xx