When she came for me
through the ford, came for me
through running water
I was oxter-deep in a bramble-grove
glutting on wild fruit. Soon
we were climbing the same
sour gorge the river fled, fall
by noiseless fall. I mind a wizened oak
cleaving the rock it grew from,
and once, a raptors’ mewl. Days passed
– or what passed for days,
and just as I’d put the whole misadventure
down to something I ate,
she leapt – twice, thrice, my sick
head spun, and here we were:
a vast glen ringed by snow-peaks,
sashaying grass, a scented breeze,
and winding its way toward us
that same world-river – its lush banks
grazed by horses, horses
I knew she’d leave me for,
right there, her own kin –
no use my pleas, no use
my stumbling back down
to where the berries grew,
because this is what I wanted;
so all I could do was brace myself
and loosen my grip from her mane.
Kathleen Jamie is the author of several collections of poetry, including The Overhaul (2012), and two volumes of essays, Findings (2005) and Sightlines (2012).
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