Old Dyke, Balloch Wood

OLD DYKE, BALLOCH WOOD
 
 April followed us
 through Balloch Wood.
 We could feel its promise
 brush against our faces.
 
 Spring  hung heavy
 in the dew-filled air
 mixing with our breath
 as we walked further in.
 
 Then we found it,
 an old stone dyke,
 moss covered, tumbled,
 hidden in the depths.
 
 It was going
 nowhere, encircling 
 nothing, its reason
 long since lost to us.
 
 But it belonged.
 Somehow, this space
 was where it dared
 both time and season.
 
 We left, knowing
 that even spring
 could not breath
 life into cold stone.
 
 We emerged,
 confirmed in our belief,
 that crumbling walls,
 are the best walls of all.
 
                                                          Derek Ross