Port Meadow

That wintry light ensouling Port Meadow – common ground that has never been ploughed for at least 4,000 years – propelled itself through a prism of shadow.

The wide sky, the flood plain, the geese, the emptiness that seemed to swallow brisk walkers and fluorescent runners, the cold that made my gloveless fingers freeze

as we discussed my forthcoming trials (under the knife in a month or so when I’m likely to be opened, resected, and stitched up), exhaustion after the recommended miles.

We crossed the river, then the extended bridge that spans the added railway line, after which the walk I’ve taken many times, and then we reached the edge

of the Meadow, headed back to habitation, a fire, warmth, conversation, laughter, memories, the hope one might pull through.