by mistersoto

A path without compass
From my feet
Its banks span off into the distant horizon
A memory pursued
Half glimpsed
Among the broken rocks and debris
Of my heart
In front
Your hand is there
In the space
Its dangling fingers
Hang before my vision
Which works its way up your arm
Over your shoulder and nape
As you ascend a crag
Details of your face
Slip scrutiny
Slip slowly out of sight
For a decade
A year disappears
In the tick of a second
The contours of your voice
Recalled in the trickle of evening birdsong
On a country walk
Amongst the bracken and road signs