Reflection

The haze renders a single wash

of shapes - green, grey, white, fuchsia red.

The highest peak is the baldest;

Its flanks cool the valleys below.

A lark sings its psalm of summer;

Its song slips into the blue sky,

spills the notes along the heavens.

This last hill walk is the still point

round which the kite of sun circles.
The gouged track is indifferent
to the break that snaps our fates.
Time completes the final canvas.

When the sun shines, cold shadows wait;

Where joy grows deep, sadness takes root.