We, who weren’t born to this
have fallen among walkers again:
mired in Gandalf-talk
Celtic mountain names crunched under the tongue
and exhaled as polite boasts;
a thesaurus of tired weather-words
squalling to no conclusion;
the sighs of health and aching limbs;
three hours gathering, chopping, bringing in
and turning foragings into weak broth
before drinking away
the last of the day’s fire.
There’s no need
to foul their crisp breakfast with our temper.
We can just let them go.
They will look surprised and leave happily,
perhaps glance knowingly at our door.
Later, we’ll watch blue-ink clouds
pool on distant rock-tips.
Tom Sastry lives and writes in Bristol. In 2016 he was chosen by Carol Ann Duffy as one of the 2016 Laureate’s Choice poets. His first pamphlet, Complicity was one of the Poetry School’s books of the year for 2016 and was Poetry Book Society pamphlet choice for Spring 2017.