These Hills

1 May 2017

that enclose my days, open up ahead, like a book.
And I watch a ship on the sea’s blank page – a fugitive
full stop – write itself into refracted light

and vanish. Clouds blot and then tear across
the sun. Bees scrawl in the long petals
of fuchsia heath bursting from rocks

like asterisks. Walking here, I saw the forest
flowers beginning to open. What offering
can I make on a hard winter’s outer edge, word

thin, hands empty? This overhang offers me
its scripts of moss, its winking stone. It steps into blue air,
above a drop that would crumple me like paper.

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