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Gone Walkabout

Malcolm Povey

When, having nervously parked the car

in the car-packed Purbeck village,
we follow the path, into wind,
to the coast, the signs that warn

CLIFF FALL and you snag your ghts,
you in your big, black coat that won't

keep your throat warm, you who climb
many a s le with me, the thick mud
wai ng for both of us, my solid shoes,

your high heels, and I see your white leg
farthinged through nylon, farthing

you say, do you remember the wren?
and I joke, four things to a penny.

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