The train is running
pleasantly right now, and not too fast.
A solitary panorama-happy traveller beyond
the stir of time,

I register a hay load slowly
turning on an incline.  I recall
the oxen urged uphill, whipped, shouted at
by our neighbour, years ago.

A man walks on a sunlit
meadow, quietly pulled to his task.
I know the pace.  It is that of a farming
poet.  Which informs me.

The skies have altered, imperceptibly.
The clouds, grown brighter, bulge, and lean
to converse with long forgotten
........childhood billowings.

Shrubs, trees pass underneath
as serious statements, manifold surprises.
..The darkly rooted and diversiform
.display of vegetation

..results in a green inquiry.
..Concealed by softly rolling prairies,
..a canyon, riddle of this region,
.remains the measure of its past.

The lake, after the tunnel, calm, demure,
as though to understate its riches,
represents a real sea.
Its luxury of humours

prompts rooflessness
above huge mountains,
whose base, a distant greenery
already seems lost to the air.

Landscape attending memories of landscape:
This lake of soothing silence shields a thought,

a valley with a path in it, a hut, maybe,
a lazy chimney smoke, a gentle

..waving:  welcome home.