She would have felt the dryness of the rock
underneath her leather sandals, heavy woollen skirts
the heat of her sun would just begin to burn
the nape of her neck
the smell of clover and grass seeds remind her
of a pang of hunger in her belly, no rabbits snared all week.

She would stare out, due north
Fingering her necklace of tiny blue beads,
Stroking the handle of an antler knife,
watching for the men folk
not at this sprawl of Huddersfield
but a thick green quilt of trees,
the dark forest, stretching to the horizon.

A fringe of it still clings to the steepest valleys
noses into the town
ready to reclaim it in the blink of an eyelash.