Three Poems

Making today for the hill track,
The rock-riven slopes, the grottoes,
Water's hard course to the sea,
Tree-root's to water, light's
Through the trees, and the light broken
By brushstrokes of wind and cloud
Over contours, colours themselves mutated
By growth, erosion, decay,
I was halted: to the horizon sprawled
A flat surface, fenced off.
And in garish letters on boards I read:
Memorial Park. Through the palings
Glimpsed a single sheep penned,
One cow, one goat farther off,
Last, a pinkness that could be one pig -
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