There are days when the stars align into a pattern
you can follow down to a place by the river.
A place where all that matters is blue stirred water
the pungent sweetness of earth and pine
the birds calling and calling .
On a lazy Saturday afternoon you walked the embankment,
a pair of black winged moths chased through the bracken
and you thought, beautiful, beautiful.
So much is written into the margins of your life,
so much of the star’s alignment is determined
by the wings of a black moth,
by the silver flame of river,
by the wind turning the pines.