Evening

You’re twelve. Thirteen at most.
You’re leaving the house by the back door.
There is still time. You’ve promised
not to be long, not to far.

One day you’ll learn the names of the trees.
You fork left under the ridge,
pick up the bridleway between two streams.
Here is Wool Clough. Here is Royd Edge.

The peak still lit by sun. but
evening. Evening overtakes you up the slope.
Dusk walks its fingers up the knuckles of you spine.
Turn on your heel. Back home

Your child sleeps in her bed, too big for a cot.
Your wife makes and mends under the light.
You’re sorry. You thought
It was early. How did it get late?

Simon Armitage