The Old Long Hill

We were alone listening to wind in gorse
and water falling. Before we knew it
we had started the long trek up the mountain
pacing on sleepers laid over boggy ground.

I never thought to reach the summit but you
were determined. I pressed on with pauses
to look down at waves riffling the lake's shore.
We met at the cairn. Wind iced our faces.

I watched you bound downhill full tilt
while I walked slowly, minding my step, composing.
then a white movement, a rump. Others
grazing, ears pricked, at my steps in grass.

Last evening as I drove home from Glencree,
the moon rising over mountains, my headlights
caught the eye of one deer, the shape of another
and I heard your footsteps on the path.

Rosy Wilson