These hills are green — still green in winter too.
I walk them slowly, triumphantly, home.
Gentle slopes are steeped in mist, and sheep
stay still, don’t care.
No cliff face, no heart race.
Here jagged ridge gives way to lazy wave
and warmth wraps around my body
— though wet and chilled and muddy it may be.
Each arising thought meets grass forgiving
and meets grey sky and meets the hungry wind.
Where the quiet roar drowns each of my beliefs
Until I’ve nothing left to do but stand
This is not living on the edge, in wonder
or tremendous peril, this is living
the soft greens, in the very heart of earth.