For Tricia Durdey

As she walked up the muddy, overgrown path –

a path that was sometimes beside the river

in white-water spate from a night of rain,

and sometimes through the oak woods, leaves falling

gently as if choreographed – she thought

despairingly of events half the world

away, the rights and wrongs of ancient horrors,

modern outrage. When she reached the summit

there was World’s End: a ruined chapel.

A crow flew up noisily from what

might have been the altar. From crevices

in the tumbled walls ferns grew, and moss

covered the floor’s broken paving stones –

a seemingly romantic, gothic folly.

Local legend had berserk Norsemen slaughter

Celtic Christian families hiding in the chapel,

and set the oaken roof-beams alight.

She began to descend, thinking how easy

the legend made choosing the right side,

the side of goodness, and kindness, of hope

not despair, however much such a choice

was a considered act of faith and balance –

like walking downhill on that muddy path

safely beside the tumbling river.

Suddenly she thought we are more than our lives,

and smiled at such mystical metaphysics,

but said out loud, ‘Yes, we are more than our lives’.