Evenings the crows pass
in and out the beech trees.
Perhaps it is autumn,
she walks the lowland.
The first pinch of winter –
red docken sticks, colour
running from the pasture,
weeds leaning east.
The stripped falling
face of the willows
is part of it. The land
levels down to the marsh.
A place the river
loses itself, boggy land
of overgrown water
the foot strikes into.
October swells in the beds
of reeds and tall grass.
She blows the thistledown,
puts her feet squarely
and passes the place
horse and man went down
at a gulp: bottomless pit
of bones and lost footholds.
Oh rumours go back, soldiers
and farmers mistaking
the look of firm footing –
ghosts, river vapours.
As she leaves that place
that after will speak of her:
face peering through water
into a face, into a dark.