Powered By Square1.io
by Alison McCrossan
On these hills everything is backward –
the clouds sink to the grass,
pock-marked by hooves passing through,
my feet turn and twist, but I don’t care
for at last, I have touched this summit.
This is where my dreams were placed;
I would gaze at these slopes, their curve
against the sky, and roll my ambitions
to the other side, the unknown, where
after all, anything is possible.
Far below, a landscape of streets
I know, housing estates and home,
all colours fade to blue to grey,
even the greens, even the red bricks.
I’m standing on my dreamscape,
topsy-turvy, so now I turn
and look the other way:
a rolling terrain of fields and woods,
melodies and cries of birds; a distant low,
the waft of grass and rain, soft, evocative:
plant and ozone; the scene lifts and falls,
and finally blends into dipping showers,
surely the slopes sweep against the sky.