Belonging Poem by Matt Mooney

Belonging

Where hill climbing ends
Around the fourth bend,
And you breathe easier
As you walk on the flat;
Straight and narrow now
With hawthorn hedges.
Cattle had been let out,
Leaving their hoof tracks
In the muck they spread
As they hurried onwards,
Bound for summer fields;
The tracks will disappear
With every shower of rain
And the road as white as ever
Will rise before us then-
But one way or another
We belong here just like them.