HORIZONS
Clinging, haggard to the sky are the remnants of summer clouds
Scared by the fingernails of autumn’s bony hand
Poured from great treacle pots in those clouds are the roads I walk along
No definition, melting into hedgeways and fields. Curving, Swerving Descending and then ascending again until finally I sit on the summit and in the distance I will see it all. I will see the very curve of the earth on my horizon.