If summer is conversation, <br />then winter is thought; <br /> <br />or so it seems tonight: rain in the trees <br />and, halfway between our house <br />and the neighbour’s farm, <br /> <br />a lost ewe in the fence-wire <br />waits for dawn; <br /> <br />as I am waiting now, <br />for something new: <br /> <br />a way of thinking come in from the fields; <br />a music, spare and empty as a psalm, <br /> <br />or like a question no one thinks to ask <br />until the wind remembers on his skin, <br />a sky beneath the sky, the dreaming grass, <br /> <br />acres of homeland, measured out in stars.<br /><br />John Burnside<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/over-kellie/
