The wild mountains are calling me again.
Did I try to cast them off?
Those dark blue hills of my youth?
I still lyricise about heather,
The birks and the deep cold lochs.
But I seem to have adjusted my love
To fit, elegantly, these smooth, green swards
That have become my life, the yellow
Harvests that bask on sunlit, warm plateaus,
And the thin, slow running
Streams and rivers of England.
Just who do I think I am fooling?
I know those hills better than that!
I know them as half the perimeter of the world.
The rich purple that sinks into ...