Up rough-tended hills,
Of gutted paths, carved shadows
Of rain’s thunderous moments,
And dry clay dust, its remnant

I climb the crusted sills
Dodging entangled thorns
That catch and prick and scrape

Vines lush with buoyant fruit
Lingering in mist and morning chills
I watch the distant brute of night
Shed grays and tender trills

Squat Boldo leaves and wild rosemary
Fragrant on the air, a flutter of
Earthy sweetness so pure
I wonder why I alone am here

I catch hidden lairs tucked
Between crest and cleft
From the corner of my eye
Wild hares dart, believing swiftness
Hides them from hawk and owl
But swiftness is not escape

I fall into the rhythm of dawn and dusk
Cloud sifted mornings
Where quail thunder from bush
Startling the quiet hills from slumber

Cool breezes relieve the heated afternoons
When the sun simmers like an open flame
And I seek protection in tall Quillays
Like the oaks of my childhood and youth

I sing in the hills of this valley
Lifting my voice in ancient praise
Memories perhaps of distant ritual
As the sun spreads its warmth
In rapturous rose, shades of plum and peach
To earth and water
Formless spirit now full and rich
Living in land and tree and hill

In the mornings when I walk alone
I am near the heart of this place
And its rhythms beat slow and sure
And free