Richard George
Returning
Whole as a chord
That line of hills, far off:
And as we drive, that instant
We fly.
But inch by mile unrolls
The third dimension:
Ranges turn to hills,
Grey into colour.
Until . . .
Bubbling streams, clear to the stone
Angle gradients, chase the lambs:
White farmsteads notch above us,
Crick-neck ridges ladder skies
Tempest grey.
But everything this day
Is motion:
Our only destination
The wind, and diamond sun
And sleep inside the mind’s eye,
Flying.
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