John Dixon

Moorside - Poem by John Dixon

Seasons have blown away
into the mulch of years
since last I saw
the hills
like grey mould
at the sky's edge.

From sleep I've watched
the cloud herds come,
white with the August sun,
from Clwyd
where Dee mist
shrouds the months and distances.

Far sight needs days like this
of pewter skies and cold.
When last I saw so far
snow lined the eastern faces of the hills.
Memory sees it now
as if the hills, like constellations,
told us their past.
Hills I know, and stars
and days,
and not the distances between.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 23, 2012

Poem Edited: Monday, April 23, 2012

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