for Ashley Loveridge
Linear. Beyond lines. Path swallowed
by the mare’s tail flick of cow parsley.
Your feet pound out the hollowed
laughter of this discarded canal. A sparse lee
in the woods jolts you awake,
out of the hammered dream of the run;
it writhes with the scent of rain, aches
under a blanket of wild garlic, sun.
You have bitten, sharp as an arrow,
into the low heat of the dusk,
the deep focus, the valley’s marrow.
The world is a husk
until you run it, until you find your way
over nettle creep, cow dung, hard-trodden clay.