Weary All Hill

From our hotel window we watch legends cloud form

on the broad flank of the hull.

A sunset sided flock slowly mow contours

and then move in unison,

aftershadowing by centuries the progress

of pilgrims along this route.

Cistercian white in the half light,

following the ridge lit in last sun,

off to some gloaming retreat,

leaving Weary All Hill

thinly veiled with many shadows,

this landscape many folded

as if by the action of saints,

a holy puzzle box which only

has to be undone,

the slope sailing like an

unmoored island in the night,

the avalon ark ready to

take us away again.