This day you wonder, finding nowhere quite
What you expect to find. The strident air
Surrounds you like a sea of sweeping light;
The hills and fields return you stare for stare.

Humpbacked and grim, the giant juniper
Bows down to scowl; across the crawling grass
Beyond, where the twin Balm o’Gileads were,
Two strangers halt and stiffen as you pass.

Something is altered here. The difference
Between you and the blowing world is thinned.
You turn to face the house, and common sense,
And see a woman shouldering the wind.

Turn to the barn, and see an old man leaning,
Intent, to hear those droning syllables–
Those phrases harsh and high, and wild with meaning,
Of shouted sound from granite-throated hills.

© Harry Bruce, All Rights Reserved