The Road Through the Glen 

Without sat nav I almost miss the turn.

Your fingertips stretching the pixelated map

on your phone to breaking point.

The sky blown open in an hour    

and in the car your last reply 

becomes our hush, something vast, apart.

We drive into a no-man’s land of stone.

The river to your left, a ribbon of light,   

twisting, disappearing for half a mile,

coming back, capricious child.

Human things that pass for towns —

landmarks, signs we’ve scribbled down:

A single house, a barn, a telephone.

Seven generations of love,

a wilderness and us.

Michael Brown