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and rowans, yes, even these rowans, mountain ash, sacred tree,
lucky tree whose red berries the clamouring birds gorge on

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and the chilly beck, for these waters are rarely warm but always
clear, so you can read the stones they travel upon; the chilly
beck where you chase ugly bullhead and shimmering minnow

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you must climb the stone stile by the road first,
descending Gordon's Field through his docile chewing cows
to the iron bridge and across, as if on your way to the grey
ruins of the powder house on the other side

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closer now, much closer