The hills behind us form
a big green bolster.
Aunt says the lanes will be bursting
with berries, so we should walk.
I don’t think we’ve ever taken
a country ramble. It would never have
flickered through Father’s sordid mind.
I think Mother was allergic to nature.
A mythical realm maybe just
beyond the next ridge.
The sun is out. We ford
a little stream, intoxicated
on fresh air. Our limbs are