Willen Lake North
The first walk back and I begin to understand
the instincts of homing pigeons.
Magnetic fields and ley lines
seem to lead nowhere else but here.
It is the going away that sharpens the eye
for familiar scenes,
makes dull edges keen,
each footfall meant to be,
echoes of heart beats
long since silent.
I sit on a bench of memory
taking in the familiar sweep down to water
rippled by a biting breeze,
find that perfection is discovered
when the seeking stops.