It’s a high place. A steep
yielding to barren openness.
A story of peoples, strong,
rigid as the soil, long suffering,
squinting at a low sun.
Crowded forests dream of wide
horizons while shouldered tight
to branches unlike their own.
City people. The release of flesh onto
streets and into buildings; the exhaust
of words bleeds dry all meaning.
The dream of long away bathes
willingly in the hope that faith
eventually arrives.
Roger Singer 