@toybulldog wrote:
Travelling
Mountains. A lake. One of a famous number. I see these birds, they dip over wavelets,
looping, martins or swallows, their flight is enough, to be here, forgetful, in a boat, on
water, the famous dead have been here. They saw and named what I see, they went and
forgot.
I climb a mountainside, soggy, then springy with heather. The clouds are low, the shaggy
sheep have a name, old, less old than the breed less old than the rock. And I smell hot
thyme that grows in another country, through gaps in the Roman wall a cold wind carries it here.