East Hills

… slipping in its mount again …

Wells May 15th

Young samphire shoots
      suddenly so prolific 
They crumple under foot
      on the walk to 
East Hills
A sand bank with
      sharp grass and 
         Corsican firs
We make the journey 
       you have long aspired to 
And it is a journey 
        to nothing, and everything,
To a hill that’s not a 
         hill
Rising barely twenty
        feet above the high 
            tide line
To a place that’s not
      a place
But a concentrated 
      collection of space
The only thing here
       is what we bring
A way of being without 
       anything 
But   no
             As it should be
for always
       Like the creek tide
enduring constancy

[Yes, she thought, laying down her [s]brush[/s] laptop in extreme fatigues…and opened the notebook tucked away in the corner of the bureau]