Frost bright on rooftops
sun’s beams bring steam from bare slates
sparrows ruffle plumes
(On feeling somewhat Pre-Raphaelite)
Fold upon fold of long low hills
between me and the golden evening light
bathed in mists, curved flanks
seem golden garbed limbs at languid ease
lovers lay before the gates of heaven
(With these sunsets and the atmosphere of the place,
it is easy to see why these hills have long been considered mystical.
The ancient celts carved the standing stones of
Stonehenge here before transporting them to Wiltshire.
Rejects, part shaped rectangles, still litter the hillsides.)