As a child she believed she was the only one
to trace the paths between the trees,
to tread through undergrowth, navigate streams,
and arrive at the slope of the water’s edge;
spend hours tossing pebbles into the loch,
skimming stones on the surface, then sit and watch
as the ripples she’d created pooled and spread.
Twenty years later, and for years after that,
she returned to that place on the edge of the loch
looking out – to where ospreys circled and dove,
to where pike broke the surface to gulp at the air,
and a lone grey seal went fishing and roamed.
Drawn there by stories she’d heard as a girl,
she watched as the waters shifted and swelled,
longing for the sight of something more rare
than the diving of birds, or the skimming of stones.
Poet for June