Roeburndale in Winter

Roeburndale in Winter

This is high, wide land:
I squeeze words to shape wind thin
branches, barbed brambles,
sheep tangled in ling and rush;
red holly, rowan berry,

a two day dead hare,
eyes open, ears soft, back bone
blood by the roadside.
I cannot stay with detail,
But scan huge horizons, where

behemoth clouds hang
in ice sheets, Ingleborough
grabs the last slice of
an orange sun so distant
that its flat slant has no warmth.

Continents collide,
Hills buckle, maelstrom beats stone.
This landmass is cut
by limestone walls, cattle grids,
gates which I open then shut.

The Japanese have
a miniature word for a
massive thought: yugen,
awareness of universe
too mysterious for words.

The year ends here on
a fault ridge of falling rocks,
as a buzzard lifts
from a snow fence to survey
hare, hill, fell, me, through chill air.