Pressing the Same Mud
June, first Saturday
Walkers' Club climbing Leith Hill
You walk ahead
My feet press further
Grey mud where yours
Made the first impression
We pause at the top
Beneath the tower with its little
Built-in kiosk
Selling cling-wrapped fruit-cake
sandwiches
polystyrene cups of soup and tea
Mud on my boots
I gaze out from the hill
Your voice behind me.
June, second Saturday
Same hillside
My feet pressing the same mud
Alone now
We pause at the top for 20 minutes
In the silence I recall
Your voice
Seeing a pool nearby
I walk over
Dip my boots in
Washing away the mud
Which had clung to both our boots
Walk on alone.