The stillness of the wood.
It could be a week, a year
after your own death,
until someone with a dog approaches.
A horse looks up, from distance.
The return journey is lost
to an argument in your head
with a friend you haven’t seen for an age.
The long gardens of the village houses
are the closest you want to be to other lives,
though it’s good to watch the people
acting so content, so sure,
of what it is they are supposed to do.