Divination

A Northwesterly

breaks over the brow of the hill,

and finds the tops of Norfolk pines

in the park. The sound of the wind

and the trees

seems so far away, old songs of infinite variation, celebration

and loss;

some place I’ll never go.

°

The tallest tree on Bishop’s Hill

is a conifer in a garden abandoned

by clergy. High as I dare, then

stand on a springy bough and open

a view

of our upturned township—its red roofs and slate bell tower.

Beyond

are the ranges

and Mt Duvall, its granite

dome and organ pipes of basalt.

The wind and the finely etched

pine needles, sing too honestly

of distance,

for a boy not to feel lonely. Yet I visit often for the height

of the hill, and

stay for what aches to be seen.