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Pressing the Same Mud

 

June, first Saturday

Walkers' Club climbing Leith Hill

You walk ahead

My feet press further

Grey mud where yours

Made the first impression

 

We pause at the top

Beneath the tower with its little

Built-in kiosk

Selling cling-wrapped fruit-cake

sandwiches

polystyrene cups of soup and tea

 

Mud on my boots

I gaze out from the hill

Your voice behind me.

 

June, second Saturday

Same hillside

My feet pressing the same mud

Alone now

 

We pause at the top for 20 minutes

In the silence I recall

Your voice

 

Seeing a pool nearby

I walk over

Dip my boots in

Washing away the mud

Which had clung to both our boots

 

Walk on alone.