It's a walk with a friend on the muddy path
beside a river, a rough drawn border,
between her field with the Hereford herd
and my kitchen garden dug over, ready.

It's the sight of a hare leaping through grass,
of a sparrow pecking birdseed off stone
or resting in saxifrage, undisturbed.
It's the fur of a bulldog chewing a bone,

It's the colour of work in a timber study,
of bookshelves stocked in no given order,
mahogany desk in a shaded corner
where leaves shake outside on winter alder.

It's the colour of hair in my photo of Father
who died too young and left us together.

Rosy Wilson