This is the story of a man and woman
under a willow and beside a weir
near a river in a wooded clearing.
They are fugitives. Intimates of myth.

Fictions of my purpose. I suppose
I shouldn't say that yet or at least
before I break their hearts or save their lives
I ought to tell their story. And I will.

When they went first it was winter; cold,
cold through the Midlands and as far West
as they could go. They knew they had to go -
through Meath, Westmeath, Longford,

their lives unravelling like the hours of light -
and then there were lambs under the snow
and it was January, aconite and jasmine
and the hazel yellowing and puce berries on the ivy.
...