I watch for you in the dusky face of evening, from across a barnless field, when cattle lay low, where no hilltop obscures nor skyline opaques; I watch for you, Horizon.

When the deep blue light of a worn-out air is wed with a web of golden hair, I leap from my duties and run to the gate to watch for you, Horizon.

By day I trail my clumsy feet, refuse to play, and choose to read, yet come the hour – how I blame the hour – I watch for you, Horizon.

Like the ever-sheer and distant cliff, falling far and far beyond my reach, I too have fallen for your power, and watch for you, horizon.

Where am I from, and where am I to? From ashes to ashes, and all that I grew. The farming, the harvest, the feast and the cheer, the love in the eye of the one you held dear, the light and the dark, creeping in every moon; from ashes to ashes, and all that I grew, where am I from, and where am I to?

Is it the far-off cry of a city street that howls to the moon in a midnight hour? Is it the content of my casting vision that nets and hauls a detailed catch? Or is it the tonguely echoes that sour my breath with what’s been said? Perhaps the sprightly scent of you, my dear, that beckons me towards your lips and prays a silent parting, shall serve the purpose of my muse and slow the heart departing.

There hangs a stagnant memory that turns my bed to stone. And here I am, so far from home, in a place once called my own.

Half a page could never do nor fill the quota set by words that so demand a grander view of all their trees and all their birds. Yet even I who never flew (the less that’s said the more that’s heard) know half a page could never do nor fill the quota set by words.