We trudge beside a rain-happy river,
busy with Dippers, squabbling for mates and nests.
It makes a change with no one about, she said.
The mud is squelchy, a primal glue. Waterfalls
cascade the ancient voices of hillside streams.
There’s a dead sheep nestled in silica rock
across the river. Headless. It spooks us both.
In these lichen-coated oak, where air dampens
the moss bright stone, a breath of the old ways
whispers myth. Daft I know. Such places gather belief.
Phil Wood was born in Wales. He has previously worked in Education, Shipping, and a biscuit factory. His writing can be found in various publications, including The Poetry Shed, Snakeskin, Ink Sweat and Tears, and London Grip.