A horizon of blue hills
like blistered silk.
The black, industrial
flame of poplars.
The mystery of the landscape
in the word.
White, rucked, small rocks
are sheep on green pasture.
I am the figure in the landscape
which does not live
unless I move.
Sheep lie down in the wind,
trees tremble their roots
in underground runnels.
Cattle pour milkily across
a world of occurrence.
The sparrow-hawk dives for the kill
his glass eye reflecting an instant
that there is no landscape
without people.
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