On the Cobbler

In a patch of sky, on a patch of hill,
the air damp-cold, the drizzle still,
I watch a mist begin to spill
down Cobbler’s slope.
It overtakes a mountain rill’s
white twisting rope.

With infinite care it seals up where
a mountain’s side was steep and bare.
Small rocks with its indifferent care
it shields away
from my rude eyes that shift and stare,
this silent day.

Beneath a comfortable rock I rest,
and find an ease I’d not have guessed.
I am alone; I am caressed
too, by the mist:
so my rough soul, on this hill’s breast,
is touched and kissed.

I leave the hill and stumble down
to road and car, cacophonous town –
a deafening sea where I must drown –
except for seeing
these few smudged words, with which to crown
a patch of being.

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