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