First spring winds embraced
refreshed by the delicate touch
of virgin grass after the shower.
A distant echo
of a cuckoos call
desperate to lay her mottled egg
and fly before the season turned.
Land opened up before the eye
in a symphony spread down to sea,
its history pulsed, undiscovered
beneath slow stone circles
abandoned at solstice
by glaring conformists.
This judgement in contentment –
a bottle neck
from the caffles of fireweed
torn on the journey.
Before the grace of gods
stands only hope,
and the only escape
is to travel onwards.