lost on a hillside

memory of my father

after all this time

behind this old house

on the hill where gallows stood

an oak forest grows

hands and face and space

locked in or locked out, the mind

the loneliest place

in the pandemic

when home is a sleeping bag

in dense undergrowth

we are startled by

a man with binoculars

a dog yelps and runs

hard to imagine

half of the world is ablaze

while summer rain falls

from the comfort of

the sofa our dog looks out

grumbling at the rain

spiders’ webs so fine

decorated with dust motes

caught in a sunbeam

the sun dazzled by

a bright sprinkling of raindrops

slips behind a cloud

first day of August

and now the rain falling hard

relieves summer’s heat