This poem is taken from PN Review 129, Volume 26 Number 1, September - October 1999.
In All My Holy Mountain1
Westerly
It begins as a breath
a softness in the air
over the oakwoods
the first dustings of blue
***
brings a sea-change
the luminous shadow
of an Atlantic calm
close faraway light
***
catches the drift of
the stream, the wooded tumps,
rephrasing them in blues
finer than woodsmoke
***
takes the breath away
over the hillfort
in a blue that lifts
...
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