There was a hill covered in cloud
that resisted the imprecations of the wind
that tossed the crows about and hurried us
to shelter beneath a bare crag, eroded
by the dwelling of the centuries,
bodies it had harbored, of beast
and being alike; in its lee grew
heather the colour of a womb;
in its shadow, water carved a valley,
filled it with the bones of the mountain,
moss and green pasture, streamed on tripping
and weaving, always toward the ocean
and its intimately, earth-embracing,
endlessly hospitable horizon

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“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling-places.” (John 14:2a)