Below seven arches of spanning bridge
six friesian kye graze on flooded banks
or lie in the shade of a sycamore
(though it doesn’t look like rain).
Grandad’s brushstrokes are still distinct
in the pale ridges of lapping water
and the white tufted tips of cow tails.
Less than a mile from here my dad was born,
on land once held by Jacobite lords.
Took seventy years to circle back, replant
roots in heavy clay. Home ground reclaimed.