The Plain

Alone on the plain.

It unrolls everywhere,

In search of form,

The relief of trees,

A hugging bush,

A spilled shadow

Across its dryness.

The hills are a bent thumb

At the edge of sight.

They surge and fall;

Rock and grass cut with water.

It splashes white on sharp edge

And winged life hugs its lines

Then dives into shadow.

The light here plays.

It jiggles and two-steps under cloud,

Turns purple on the hill;

Saves its magenta for nightfall.

Then, as darkness drips

The land, at last, opens its gilded hand


3 thoughts on “The Plain

  1. As Sussanah says, John, that closing image is immense, and Dean’s geometry comment hits home as well. As ever your feeling for the light, land and river ‘marinates’ your words. Wonderful!

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