The wind that tenses in the hollow And re-weaves what grass I kick, Goes over my length for pillow, Weary of crags and dirt. 5 As I approach a higher place, Barren and brown, the dust Wind-blown into my onward face Fingers my eyes and hurts. I less and less the height approach 10 That further and further Recedes; all that I now closer touch Is the push of Other. Why has wind come, why a stranger, So close and harsh to me, 15 Who has no wish, no wish, to linger, Held by what he cannot see. When over the lapsing hilltop's crest At last came sudden rest,- I knew not who I was in the hush 20 When no gust pressed.
From the collection "The Timid Leaper"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.