So It Was Always Here

So it was always here that

the soul might find its rest. 

This familiar view of hills,

the farmhouse whitewashed in 

the sunlight where the swallows 

make their home, travelling 

such a distance to find a 

place they might belong, a 

familiar tongue, the sight 

too of sheep, cattle grazing

viewed through the perspective 

of our sojourn, no longer

strangers to ourselves. And if 

there are uglier sights below

then they are forgotten for the 

moment, light glancing off the 

distance in which the mind finds 

itself surprised by such a grace.

Crocuses

Flowers breaking through the cracked

earth, witness to the mist wraithing 

the hillside, crisp light of morning 

measured by the rude waking from the

dreams with which we passed the night,

blind to the stark light of dawn breaking.

Whose garden is this, uncared of

through the dark days and nights we

have spent together, shut behind

drawn curtains that keep safe the 

shame endured within these walls?

No more than a lingering memory,

one that no longer observes the 

passing season, budding of bulbs 

planted the year past, counting 

the sum of those that have summoned 

absence to this point, knowing only 

mourning for winter's passing, 

the frosted earth.