The Boundary
Dug in the gum of a field
the stone stile sits,
boot-worn and old
with the hedgerows;
its aged, slate skin
bone-hard and clammy
as I lean my hands
on its beaten brow.
On the other side
a coat of emerald grass
hugs the claggy, brown earth
and wagtails weave
in the hawthorn.
I turn back,
following the ploughed
furrows home –
the empty beds
of last season’s harvest.
Dan Stathers is a writer from the South Hams.