This special place

On Sundays, with nothing else to do,
we’d take the car and drive. An hour, sometimes two,
and pull over on that lane where the trees grow tall and old,
and we’d walk a while, through the woods, sunlight dancing green and gold,
and give those greying horses space as they pushed on through the hedge
and bowed their thirsty, grizzled heads to take a sip from water’s edge.
You’d spot the silver minnows, darting through the brook,
and we’d gently tread the shingle bank to get a closer look,
before we found a quiet spot and smelt the far-off scent of rose,
and listened to the stonechat sing, felt the moss between our toes.
But time’s own stream is brisk, unending. In its ripples much can shift,
as memories good and bittersweet together slowly drift
   through this sylvan place, this special place, where I watch the water run
   past the horses and the hornbeams, glinting in the sun.

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