As the ripples of light on the bottom
Of a cool, clear shallow stream
Is our life:
Ever-changing, yet almost the same
As above in the beautiful varied-blue sky
Of Summer
White clouds pass, slowly, changing, in their own species
Of Time.

No haste, hate, worry or wealth there
Where water and clouds flow
Following a beginning to an end:
So I am at rest, here where stream starts
From Fell
And the distant vistas renders
One man small among the many
Seeking as they do to control each silent Flow,
Each source that is not their source.

Thus the stillness, here
Where no people include themselves
In those Signs written in Her sounds -
Low, passing -
That mingle as She often mingles
Wind, cloud, sun and Summer
To that breath of life which becomes our rain.
There is then that sigh of knowing
How not to know
 
 

DW Myatt