When mist pearls the air, the sky full and heavy,
what secrets are hidden in the grass?

As twilight seeps across sweeping parkland
how many swallows nested here?

Before autumn leaks to wind-wailing winter
who remembers the first days of spring?

As you drift off to sleep in the hum of night
whose name do you call, who captures your soul?

How many cattle have you driven through here,
how many hoof prints on woodland paths?

Can you smell the rich green breath of the trees
when the owl flies low catching prey?


Kriss Nichol

The Temple: Diary


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