I call out to you when I run through the underpass,
my words echoing back from the walls in the cold, still air.
And when I pass the quarry, I throw the same words
across the excavated chasm into a towering wall of layered sand.
And again, as I cross the motorway, high above the traffic.
I let them ride the bitter wind rushing from the North Downs.
And finally, heading home through Moorland Wood, I stop
and shout them to the tops of the spindly light-seeking trees:
wherever you are, there I am, wherever I am, there you are,
imagine them floating back down to me, through sunlight
and shadow, like leaves yielding to autumn - gold, russet, copper -
the colours you loved. And now they are like blessings.