Horizons

Solitary trees

On the hill's cap,

Leaves on the turn,

Civilise the space

Which scours above

This ancient place.

Clockwise he walked

Round flint and chalk,

Still needing much

To talk and touch.

It sufficed not

That he knew why

The world ran dry.

The blackbird sang,

Flint did not lack

When the pit was dug.

Danger filled it in again,

Grass grew and sank

Under the rain.

He could not trade

Weapons unused,

Chip the soiled flint,

Wield a bone spade,

Dug from the earth,

Of no current worth.

The wood watched,

The green ditch filled,

Hemmed in a ring,

He dwindled.

Beneath the hurrying sky,

No blackbirds sing.

©Terry Hodgson2025