Crossing the beck

It was a day of lapwings,
of grouse churring in heather,
of curlews’ winding cries.
 
We walked amazed in weather
that turned March into June,
over morning.
 
Though skylarks fed on air
winter water fell from rocks,
glimmered like travelogues.
 
Unlacing boots, we peeled socks,
tight as city streets.
The beck ran cold through toes;
 
while far below, Ilkley roads
spread like a check tablecloth,
tempting down to tea and cake.
 
We danced and splashed, fools
playing to an audience
of startled crows.
 
And still the memory cools
here in my sweating town,
where feet ache for wilder paths.
 

Pauline Kirk

published in Out of Ilkley, online anthology (The Ilkley Festival Poetry Map),
ed Antony Dunn, The Ilkley Festival, 2010;
in collectionTime Traveller, 2017, Graft Poetry, ISBN 978-0-9558400-9-8