He considers the feckless claims
of the terrain through white binoculars
his cap hanging in exaggeration.
he falls from himself,
his head and neck into his hands.
We can go on out, I tell him,
walk the rump of pale beginnings.
Blue turns white as the ridge casts eyes
about although the piece soon becomes miles
winding through trees and heather contortions.
Wish for me not a leaden coming of coal clouds in the black afternoon.
Flower the stove so that every pipe is a cave butterfly.
His beard hoped for news
of the sea carrying claret bricks,
his heather shirt woven from wicker.
A compliment to you this particular morning
is the life breathed crook-sharp and the OS map
leads to a brown arm found in a yellow forest.
The bank showed a hidden town
in the basket of bracken,
the handle held pretty fast
knowing that the apple owns
these features of the trees
because of the calluses,
histories worn on these hands.