The Lost Glen

by James McGonigal

One of these years
            he might miss not only her birthday
                        but the date of her death. Waking at five

to slap barefoot through the halfdark
            and contemplate mist easing up the glen
                        to brush fleece and cattle rumps, the ponies

greybearded now, stifflegged
            as he peered out for their shadows grazing
                        She came back to me last night

                        in the deep blue dress with hair adrift
            across one shoulder as she always used to
like to wear it with that dress. Long light

falling across the dream. Outside
            burn waters tsked and bustled
                        sweeping word after word away.

glen: valley
burn: stream