Not Quite the Same

 

Move stealthy as the dusk on

cloudy, blustery days when voles emerge

and the ravens, mere black arcs,

flap dysfunctionally at receding skies.

 

Creep like highwaymen surprised

among discretely flowering hawthorns,

demanding instant admission

to a secret surge of beauty.

 

Follow as a narrow stream, emergent

from its bubbling creator, pours

over a satiate escarpment;

human deltas sprawl prone, emptied.

 

Waken and listen to morning

birdsong, distant cattle lowing

for want of milking. Constant rumble,

the motorway traffic ululates its shame.

 

Stand proud upon these verdant cliffs,

their jejune domain spread out below.

Chalk signifies equestrian glyphs

like two hundred feet of galloping snow.

 

Chris Hubbard, 2021