Hill Walk

1 VIEW FROM A HILLTOP
Fields sliced and harmonised into a topography
of miniature kingdoms, perfectly interlocking
and, yes, "timeless' — a version of history
long since disavowed. Stark hedgerows divide,
less fragile than the more thorny minds of men.
In each meadow, a planned randomness of cows
nibbling at the old myth of territory…
All this beneath an overhang of running mist,
revolving cloud — infinite to the eye, itself
a sovereignty, evolved by light, evolving light.
2 VIEW FROM A HEDGE
In a hedge one might feel the vibrating life
of earth — meeting of inchworm, ley line —
touch with certainty spined bracken, bone
capillaries, dry copper oakleaf ready to etch
itself on stone. There would be birds, of course,
and hedgehogs deep down nuzzling the debris:
rubied fur, curled parchment, green mosaic
of tiny creeper-spear. A life so busy, silent…
Exposed and secretive: microcosm of, if anything,
restless evolution beneath reptilian scales of bark.
3 OBSERVING SHEEP
Am I watching sheep, or are sheep watching me?
Incuriously curious, their luminous blank eyes
stare out from soot. Ravenous dreamers,
they inch up the hill growing back their wool,
the sound of cropping like tearing cloth,
rustling in a wall… On the hilltop they stand
with postures more singly vocal than ever speech,
then leap or waddle to another field,
reclaiming privacy.
Birds weave and spiral, tracing on air's glass map
the instinctive flow of sheep, old migrations
of whales and stars — signs unfolding into silence,
as is the watcher, who falls from time.