I choose the rough way over the mountain ridge,
where there is no track,
pushing through bracken above my head,
across scratchy heather on the uplands
and a long slide of scree on the descent.
The fervid afternoon sun is delirious,
my skin is mottled with dust.
I hear water
and scramble across
and find a stream gushing into a pool.
under a seven foot waterfall,
stunned by the iciness,
I raise my mouth and drink,
whirring arms and legs,
splashing patterns on the dry rocks,
stamping in time to the crazy, joyous songs.
The last few miles down through the woods
are a pleasure.
I meet you all on the gentle path;
we walk by the same stream
I am more alone in this party of seven
than I was up high, talking to the sky.
She has gone.
Gone from me.
They say she is with him,
Gianni, in Tuscany.