Epektasis

I. Approach

Out of Ladywell’s wood
I come unstitched from brick,
from the mild tyranny of pavement,
and enter the dark breathing soil.

The playpark lifts itself first—
a gentle mound
concealing the reservoir
as palms cup water,
not to hoard
but to offer.

Crows cry from the canopy—
rough bells
marking the threshold.

Then the bridge,
the pond’s shallow eye,
and sometimes the kingfisher—
blue syllable of flame,
so still
it tutors silence.

Here the world narrows
into edge.

I pause where mud begins,
refuse haste.
The water takes the sky
without applause,
dark, obedient,
keeping the old grammar of rivers.

Not Jordan—
yet the body of water remembers
how to bow.

I do not step in.
I wait for the surface
to answer first.
I enter
by consenting to arrival.

II. Anticlockwise

Without command
my feet turn left.

Against the clock—
the longer obedience,
the direction the body trusts
before the mind can argue.

Along the northern rim
the path thins.
Trees incline inward.
Water comes, goes, returns—
a recurring sentence
between trunks.

Some days we walk only this side,
measuring distance
by what remains
for swans and ducks.

Some days the full circuit,
and the circle instructs us
without speaking.

A robin accompanies us—
branch to branch,
unannounced,
unhired.

I do not translate it.
I receive its staying
as I receive breath:
given, continual,
not mine.

This wood does not entertain.
It keeps me
until I soften.

Step.
Curve.
Shadow.
Water.
Return.

Again I turn,
and something clenched in me
loosens its hand.

III. Stone Bench

The bench waits—
faithful to its coordinates,
overlooking the fishing platform,
holding the patience of stone.

Here we remain longest.

Squirrels approach—
small liturgies of hunger,
hands lifted without shame.
Nuts pass from skin to fur.
Crumbs fall,
an unnoticed blessing.

Jenny leans close,
nibbles the toggles of my hoodie—
noodles, she says,
and I become soup.
Cold air, laughter,
borrowed warmth.

Cider opens its small fire.
Film lines surface,
jokes consecrated
to this place alone.

My mother watches the path
for dogs,
so she can offer a treat—
the sacrament of greeting
repeated without fatigue.

Behind us
the embankment keeps its old posture:
earth lifted,
water disciplined,
industry pressed into quiet.

Still the light does not abandon this bench.
Rain fails to unmake it.
Grey cannot thin it.
Even frost sharpens its edges
without withdrawing welcome.

I stay.
Stone steadies.
The afternoon kneels around us.

IV. Spillway

Near the weir
sound humbles itself.

Here the reservoir releases—
water pulled down concrete
toward the waiting burn.

The bridge spans this giving:
stillness on one side,
motion on the other.

Aircraft pass above
and Jenny names them,
training our eyes
on the second sky
sliding over the first.

Below, birds adjust their balance.
Fish turn unseen.
The work continues
without our witness.

I remember the swan—
its sudden panic of wings,
the blunt impact with branches,
fear made heavy.

Jenny went down the slope,
slow, careful,
guiding it toward water
until motion remembered itself.

Water lets go
without vanishing.

I stand at the crossing
and permit something unneeded
to leave me.

V. Frost Light

Clouds part
and brightness enters—
clean, exacting.

Frost whitens the path.
The reservoir tightens its skin,
thin ice holding silence
like fragile glass.

Mist arrives later,
drawing a veil
between inwardness and sight,
between thought and attention.

Once, in blizzard wind,
I came anyway with food—
not brave,
only obedient:
seed carried through white violence,
hands numb and faithful.

Often I arrive worn,
weighted by labor,
tired of noise,
tired of myself.

Still I come
expectant.

After the bench
the town loosens its grip.
Houses thin.
Distance deepens.

And sometimes—
without striving—
the reservoir rises inward,
matter remembering
its capacity for fullness.

Those who anger me
draw near.
Noise becomes hospitable.
Even my flaws
stand briefly unaccused.

Then the veil returns.
Footsteps resume.
Planes cross.
Birds speak.

I turn toward Drumgelloch,
carrying nothing visible
except the faint aftertaste
of a world
momentarily gathered.