Trekking along the path, avoiding
nettles, thistles and spots of wet grass,
a Father looks back. A daughter caught
in a square inch forest of long grass,
a stray branch whipping away the green towers.
A walk that was taken every week.
Saturday mornings in the presence
of the river, the fields, the sky.
Those days were precious.
Where trees and birds
were more important
than growing up.