Evening

You’re twelve. Thirteen at most.

You’re leaving the house by the back door.

There is still time. You’ve promised

not to be long, not to go far.

One day you’ll learn the names of the trees.

You fork left under the ridge,

pick up the bridleway between two streams.

Here is Wool Clough. Here is Royd Edge.

The peak still lit by sun. but

evening. Evening overtakes you up the slope.

Dusk walks its fingers up the knuckles of your spine.

Turn on your heel. Back home

your child sleeps in her bed, too big for a cot.

Your wife makes and mends under the light.

You’re sorry. You thought

It was early. How did it get so late?