A dry spell. Gorse starring the rocks
above the ghyll. Far down on a shelf
her body, soft, intact. No more than
three days dead. Maybe she climbed,
nimble as a girl. But her black bob,
glossy in death, is white at the temple
where there is a crack, half-healed,
a row of bilberry beads gone dull.
She died slow. Maybe she fell, leaning
too far in – I’ve almost done it myself –
smelling depth, darkness, distance;
that breath, that call, that pull.
You have to take care, in such places.
We have ropes, lanterns, body-suits.
On her feet are yellow plastic sandals
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