Autumn Day

The day sparkles, blown and washed
clean by high winds, driving rain,
the trees drop their leaves now,
sap stiffening, and on the
hill horizon, the field is ploughed
and stands out stark against
the etched trees, neat rows
from the farmer's mind scored
in the earth

The sun is warm behind glass
and the neat little scottish
windows and slated roofs
look fresh and new
clouds billow like eiderdown
quilts and I am here, in this
scene, sitting quietly reading

thinking of all the miles
and all the years between
sitting here now, and then,
this place the other side
of the mountain, and I came
down: a survivor of frost-bitten
heights, wild snows, inadequate
limbs, all ills ranged against me
but I raged, I raged
against that dying, wrestled
the dearth, and I live
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