WINTER SOLSTICE '82
crisp cold morning
up before the sun
promise of a fine clear day
everything damp
sides of hills frosted white
green and clean and with a hush
of clinging mist
like it must have been
when these ranges were young
white faced herefords
and a solitary jogger
breathing steam
golf course knee deep
in slowly rising dew
a hint of pink
around the rim of the world
valleys turned into white lakes
bird noises all crispy clear
but people noises growing
until they finally take over
re-possessing the bits they want
until the roads and the houses
and the power lines
become as noticeable as ever
T.R.E. (1982)
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