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

and the chilly beck still runs clear and cold, though you'd not
drink from it as you would when a child, nor spend so many hours
chasing ugly bullhead and shimmering minnow

to reach it you must climb the stone stile by the road first,
descending the field still named after Gordon who is long gone
to the iron bridge and across, as if on your way to the grey
ruins of the powder house on the other side

closer now, much closer