The Kiss

I have followed the tracks of deer
through virgin land,
slept on dry moss
and catkins
beneath the boughs of a silver birch.

I have eaten fresh snow
from winter fields,
still whipped wattled with blades
of ryegrass
and flecked with white clover.

I have licked the wind
from the devil's mountain.

I have tasted the yellowed lace
of an older woman's collar,
caught her white neck
on my tongue,
an apparition.

I have marked foundations
and slung lines
for the borders of a new field,
only to fly home
leaving it unsown.