Seven miles out of light,
underneath the scrub,
the dinted moss, the scuffed path hill scars,
weighted ways where Saxon kings
acquiesced to history.
Here on a hot day, you almost feel
the ground sigh,
giving in like a theatre seat
to what must happen next.
In such a place I will find you
just when the weather breaks
to see you stand in grace
where ranged armies laboured
and where the cracked back of this ridge
offered up its help
not for faith but for geology
and the indifferent earth broke
against argumentative rock.
Here where countless atoms dance
the picture of you is clear,
marked out against an opening sky
like the sudden image an arbitrary point
gives up on the horizon
if you only stand and stare.