Upon My Return

the walls of england

the cool press of lichen, soft green on gray rock

against the warmth of bright wind and yellow-blue sun.

the promise of damp grass and prickly ferns tickling

beneath the boundless clouds, each more wide and puffed up — 

like poets full of words, waiting to let loose upon the never-ending plush of great

green hills,

sloping for centuries into the distance, 

dipping foot-hills into the shocking cold of the ocean,

and crossed again and again by the walls

built before time meant something more than seasons.  

~Hammeh