One swan seeks the river’s 

edge. A broad path follows

 

the leafed sky. I turn

to cross a soft field

 

beneath unfamiliar

clouds. Always

 

a trail before me

as I travel alone,

 

thankful for hedges of fuchsia

that bloom, illustrating

 

their season. If there is 

light in this world beyond

 

our sun, they offer it.

I rest against a ruined

 

chapel wall, lean

into its certain charity.