Half-buried, on his side,
their giant’s shoulder a shelf
of ancient Telford road,
he embraced the stillness
of the left piece of ground:

then the girls slipped giggling
into his sun-lee seeking
Gowther, who had been lost
for days, their chatter and
pink frocks shoaling in and

out of the thicket of
spades left by the men the
week before. Above their
conspiring heads, he seemed
to shift, his great, dark frame

loosening – his tear-edged
ear catching perhaps the
import of their mission:
they had forgiven him
his slumber on the bed

of wild flowers and his
free use of their missing
bear. As I saw that the
shifting was Boo the cat,
hunting mouse among the

fringes of his garlic
beard, I slowed, unwilling
to be asked why it was
that I was running, that
my breath was uncatching.