Grief

It has its own landscape,
one that draws the eye:
how it changes
with season or weather,
the creatures that move there;
how the light,
or lack of light, affects. 

I walk there,
uneven ground beneath me,
feeling the strain of steps uphill,
slipping on drenched paths,
fearful of walking off-track
where no map can guide;
hearing how the wind

in all bitterness blows
across its empty heath,
unpeopled, abandoned,
a relentless reminder
of all who have now gone.
Yet, I have walked there
when the slopes are green

with sunlight, trees full,
sweet unsummoned memories
held me again,
whose hand was let go,
who cried when lost
but somehow survived,
and then looked to find home.