Leaning Into You

Walking along this wise old path, etched upon the devil’s peak,
with its stories of soles that once stood upon its shoulder,
the aged stone and wrinkled soil whisper silent memories –
perhaps a young man travelled here and whistled a tune
 
through his teeth, under his breath, happily in love
or sang a bolder, braver song of conquest and of triumph
perhaps he paused and peered across the valley to the sea
and then, half-spent, turned and walked, half-bent
 
leaning into the wind.               Perhaps I was there
and still today can hear your whistle or your voice
riding on the wind, haunting me, this ghost of you
 
waiting here for me, peering across the valley to the sea
and me, half-bent, clinging onto you
and you, half-spent, leaning into me