The hills were perfect curves
Scribing the horizon
Past the patchwork
Of old farm fields
Their squared edges
Lined by rocks, split rails,
Fence posts and hedge rows
A quilt pattern moving
With crop and season
Colours and textures
Patterned by plough, seeding, and combine
Hundreds of years in the making.
Those curves the boundary
Between generations of knowing
And countless dreams of what might be
Sometimes clearly defined
Sometimes soft in the light
Sometimes obscured by weather
And always lost at night
But found each morning
Like a tide of knowing, believing
The constancy of change
The sureness of promised love.
Unto the hills
I lift my longing eyes.