Hillfort

It was your birthday and we walked
the green rings and felt it, our feet
on grass as thick as the fleeces
of cropping sheep. It wasn’t summer;
we didn’t observe milkwort, vetch
or wild thyme. The Durotrigans dug
and the earthworms filtered.
You were teaching and collected me
to see your friend in her airy Gillingham
kitchen and I was among artisans who
put their elbows on tables and smoked
for nutrition. It was long after the Romans
came and they didn’t even stay
for four centuries. You were the bridge
between west and east. The seam
from peat to chalk. You were exactly midway
(though nowhere near the end) and we had no idea.