Things get lost

by Robin Fulton Macpherson

If I went back north now
some things would be missing.

That ditch south of Helmsdale
where each year primroses
defied the winter mud.

The Green Table rock, once
thirteenth-birthday terror
and not visited since.

Across from the locked church
the sycamore wood full
of the loudness of rooks.

I´ve put them into poems,
wouldn´t find them again.

Someone else might find them
radiate them
with memories not mine.