COMING DOWN TO SHERRINGTON

As we stepped down the terraces

that cornered the ridge

with their bewilderment of hawthorn

and the warren’s bright gashes,

you tripped, letting out a faint cry.

That started a rabbit.

‘Look!’ you said, holding your ankle

with one hand, pointing excitedly with the other.

But I’d seen.

And I’d like to see again

that furtive rush

as the rabbit leaped to the lower terrace,

the retreating sun that caught its left ear,

a moment of dazzlement

that I would like to play over and over.

And it was gone.

You began running, a monstrous two–legged rabbit,

forgetting your pain in the evening light.

At the foot of the terraces

I caught up with you,

pulling your pigtail, which you jerked away.

And we walked through stubble

to the far gate and Sherrington

with its greengages and white mud walls.

I didn’t touch you again, though we were shoulder to shoulder.

‘For a moment I was a rabbit,’ you smiled.

‘Yes,’ I said, remembering the dazzlement.