To lean on this gate
is to meditate
upon millions of
comings and goings

cattle, sheep, squirrel
racing clouds, windswept
hedge and tree, farmer
headed home for tea

field, fells, road, sky and
the buzzard’s sharp cry
set in silence and
presence and absence

of grandfathers and
shepherds and horses
and scythes, caps and coats
old ploughs and voices

across the lichened
centuries and the
agricultural
penuries, still here

SRM