SKYLINES
-
Sheenagh Pugh (U.K.)
There is something about
the cleanness, uninterrupted
by trees or houses, the long wave of green
that never breaks, frozen where it arched
its back millennia since.
One could resent a fence, a pylon, even
a sheep for snagging that seam
between the green hill and grey sky.
So it is with the sea, the steel gleam
of light, dead straight, that marks
where air meets water, unmarred
by ship or rig.
Such edges fulfil some need,
even while the mind senses hills
behind hills, and the horizon’s curve.