At Feather Tor

They climb down the lea of the hill.
No one walks here but us.
Above is a pitch of wind, unearthly. Water pours.
If a mist drops, can I navigate?
Keep the sound of the water to your right.
Out of the crooked gorse they walk, to a clear crossing, shallow, over flat stones.
'I find it!' Little Granddaughter says.
On the other side of the river she tires and takes a shoulder ride. Crow-birds hop. Sheep poo is pointed out, and the flights of linnets from a circling Dog. They are babies, she tells Nam-ma, whispers; 'tiny-baby-birds' regards their flight with indulgent pride.

Not too cold for ice cream yet!


Suze said…
She's lovely, Lisa.
Lisa Southard said…
Thank you :-)
All of my grandchildren so far have such quirky and distinctive personalities, being part of their growing up is an immense privilege. I am a very proud, lucky Granma!

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