Weary All Hill
From our hotel window we watch legends cloud form
on the broad flank of the hull.
A sunset sided flock slowly mow contours
and then move in unison,
aftershadowing by centuries the progress
of pilgrims along this route.
Cistercian white in the half light,
following the ridge lit in last sun,
off to some gloaming retreat,
leaving Weary All Hill
thinly veiled with many shadows,
this landscape many folded
as if by the action of saints,
a holy puzzle box which only
has to be undone,
the slope sailing like an
unmoored island in the night,
the avalon ark ready to
take us away again.