The blue cloudbank trenchwalling the horizon
Turns to conifer-serrated slope
Backed by dark-green canvas with water dashing from rents
Pale velvety dust cushions the feet.
Under the overarched wickerwork of the branches
Sievings of sunlight spangle the path.
Thin sheep-worn partings cross the mountainside’s matted hair.
A lamb’s carcass, dried out on dropping-strewn turf,
is insubstantial as a loofah.
If you have any comments on this poem, Jerome Betts would be
pleased to hear from you.