Sometimes if you stand in just this corner of the car-park
Soft fronds will caress your face from the yew-tree forest
That grew on the flattened hillside here; your hand stretching out will encounter
Twisted, hair-cracked and creviced roughened tree-trunks.
Sometimes a plastic bag will waft across like a ghost
Through the enchanted long-dead forest and out again.
Here where the stabilised ferry hums through grey-green waters
Under that crazy-angled floating box
The mastodon fell and was butchered, the people rested from hunting
Wolverine waited and watched and the warning snowflakes
Silently fell on the skins and the lichens and lips.
The exiled unbroken woman drops a stone in the glade
That she found on the shore where the boat bumped in and grounded
Her feet make a pattern like a broken necklace
Through the green grass and unfolding ferns and last year’s leaves.
Perhaps she returned to the marks she left or even
Perhaps she will return when the old leaves grow green
And the order of things that we knew is thrown up in the branches
And falls in a different pattern we sensed all along.