You would not remember that day, now.
Going away again, was too much
for a five year old, uncomprehending,
his father’s departure.
The tears on that spring evening
as abundant as the rain
on Somerset moorland,
permeating everything, damp, cold.
Perhaps embarrassed, you walked,
through the barton, with its cloak
of mud and manure.
‘Let’s go up to the field’.
A cow stood, ankle deep,
amongst tufts of green.
Her calf tethered; twine
defining its world.
The ground sucked down the boots
of a small boy who wished
his grip on his father’s hand
might be nearly so firm.
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