The scent – bog myrtle
pressed between fingers,
even brushed through when
walking across this empty valley
fenced by crags.
A flat moor – the colours muted
as dusk closes in
the red rust of grasses and bracken.
A sense of calm almost,
No bird nor beast.
“In a remote land far from here …”
No, not that far
the mountains and bogs.
As though in a dream,
as though in an underworld
suspended between “life and death”
“Is this what it’s like?
it feels so good.”
But no, here and awake.
The minutes pass as
silk air wraps itself
around my head.
May my children feel this touch
On the blue summer evenings, I shall go down the paths,
Getting pricked by the corn, crushing the short grass:
In a dream I shall feel its coolness on my feet.
I shall let the wind bathe my bare head.
I shall not speak, I shall think about nothing:
But endless love will mount in my soul;
And I shall travel far, very far, like a gipsy,
Through the countryside - as happy as if I were with a woman.