The Visitor

There was a woman

who came to me every day

mostly in the morning

when the early drizzle

shrouded the mountain,

flecks of water in her hair

making it curl

like the strands of grey wool

caught in the fence.

She would put her arms around me,

murmur, sigh, weep,

stroke my mossy coat,

press her cheek against my damp skin,

sit with her back leaning against me

and gaze longingly at the hills.

She doesn’t come any more

I can only guess

she is either dead

or happy.