I was walking. A Sunday

evening in May on a road

going north and on each side

rows of terraces dark as tunnels.

As I turned a corner

the sun pitched its hand

on my heart, rays reached out

down the lane, in a glove

of burning light. Held,

I stopped. Glimpsed the gentle trees

swaying, surrendered, beside me,

bathing their slender leaves

as if touched by the Spirit’s

fingers of gold. I moved on,

gathered a wisp of fallen fern

from the charcoal verge –

my palm cupping it in a cave,

keeping alive a flame.