Wild Country
The opaque mist
hangs buoyant; taut,
a stubble veil infects
an ancient craggy face,
and currents of blooming
heather lay nonchalant along
the old Roman road.
Here I stand in retrospect
motionless as the frigid sun
begins to blend, a place where
one should feel privileged
to negotiate the freezing wind,
this place surely in need of a friend
where tussock stand rigid still!
My footprint etched upon its soul
before each blade of grass
appears to acknowledge,
this confined partisan role.
© Harry J Horsman 2020
Copyright © Harry Horsman | Year Posted 2020
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