simonhlilly

The Shadow and the Hill

Light becomes torn by rain and cloud.
A delicate distance
washed, lost, illuminated.

There is a fast
Wind river in the forest.
Below, another, threaded with light
Funnels between the knees of oaks.

Steadfast sheep, white as stars,
Nibbling deep wet grasses.

This hill, too big for birdsong,
Graciously accepts
And rolls deeper
Into its green haunt.

This hill a hero hill in name,
Breaks kindling silence,
A drift of saintly flocks.

Yesterday, the oaks were gold.
Today, they are all become steel.
Armed for winter.

Deep is the depth of the world.
The sheep know it,
The oaks know it.
Slow are the spinning shadows,
The long shadows that stroke
These patient hillsides.

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