By Nora Kirkham
We pull over at the field towards the church, slip
under wires, clamber over crackled walls.
You wade into a chamber of sun-soaked grass.
Centuries ago, the roof fell open to rain. Today
the clouds smudge sheep backs into shadows.
An archway awakens you to the coolness of being.
And walking in procession towards the cross, circling
sunken stones, I press sponge moss against my palms.
A hawthorn tree grows behind the wall, watching us glide
between fairy lines and we wander back to the car.
Its branches bend to marry the morning and night.
And we have learned to love the late winter light.
Nora Kirkham is a poet and fiction writer based in the United Kingdom. Born in Maine, she was raised on four continents and has not stopped traveling. She received her Master’s in Creative Writing from University College Cork in Ireland and is currently studying with the Institute for Theology, Imagination and the Arts at the University of St. Andrews. Her writing has appeared in Ruminate Magazine, Rock & Sling, Topology Magazine and Christian Century. She is intrigued by medieval art, alpine landscapes and Irish culture.