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.
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