It happened in a rare and precious misted morning.
Filtered through trees came the secrets of sky
meeting earth in a churning hazy dew
sifted and snaking into rolls of coil.
Like the breath of lovers leaving a trace of their pantings
fogged in and without a care of condensation
the remains of soupy vapour and sweaty flesh
dampened (as if we wouldn’t notice.)
Just at the point where the warmth found under
pushed up against the cool dropped from above
was the meeting place of wet on naked winter limbs
a thickened mass of haze, a murky wall.
Its urgent staying called me out into the cotton air.
At a distance I could see the Glastonbury-woodshed,
the Isle of Priests-bench and the vanishing-point
pathway that meandered on to Avalon.
One in front of the other, naked feet moved
the path dropped away from the earth
and I was in.