Two days before the solstice and these hills
take on their other-worldly green, silver
above the chalk, below a web of contrails
fading into distant flickers of arrival.
What’s temporary is somewhere else, beyond
this haze of downy morning. Pagan slopes
that shouldered off the ornament of trees
and left the woods to other deities
are written in the heartbeat of the land.
A pulse beats steady, quietly; this road
is only one more scratch which time will heal.
D A Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to hear from you.