Dreams From Future Hills (Poetry)

I feel at home in this high windy place
the world is broad up here —
peopled by clouds that grace
but do not clutter the horizon.

The rock is warm from loving sun —
gently scorched
and there is grass enough
for grazing, walking barefoot on
or lying cold beneath.

The scattered trees seem young
and hopeful in their hold —
waiting for birds to come.

I am the pioneer — the scout
that weighs up every need
finds balance in a landscape —
maps its shape.