Beginning late, finishing later
by Grahaeme Barrasford Young
Thirty years, or more; a year of light
(some days of night) to get this far.
Walking in, walking out, never time enough
along the slices of the ridges’ fetch.
These hills are brown, or bright with winter.
From where I look, distant ranges
I might not walk are insubstantial,
never pale or blue. All that is real
is the sea-washed summit pebble
I found for you.