these hills are content in their folds;
the winds play happily
as the rains wash field and stone
inside and out.
Grey echoing grey
stone barns meld with mists on cloudy days,
lingering in sympathetic
harmony when sunlit walls
frame quiet trees.
Men, lone and silent
brace themselves against the same winds
that lift lapwings in play,
like exuberant butterflies
but chapel clad.
Only as daylight
is blown away, do darkening
thoughts gather with the crows, circling
each other like restless fears stung
to life by night.
In the black of night,
scavengers gather to clear out
all thoughts of blood and death,
whilst the silver light manicures
And always the flow
of streams, dancing to an endless
rhythm of life with youth’s delight,
now hiding, now bursting into song
in growing choirs.