It’s most akin, I think, to coming home—
The sigh which lifts the bricks from off your breast,
When feet, at last, have ceased to list and roam…
Again upon the land they know the best:
The so familiar lines of mountain tops
Soft silhouetted ‘gainst the moon and stars
Which pour a silver glow upon the crops
Of quilted green and yellow; river scars
Across the landscape, ribbons whitish light;
The smell of crisping Autumn, faintly filled
With frost and smoke; the valley silent, bright,
With recognition, welcoming you still.
Yes, it feels like coming home, with you in sight.
My heart returns to me, the world is right.