Amen, the fields are a hush now — been
Swept by a chill wind in the winter
Scarred, in the way that skin
Never forgets rough touching.

Rising, invited by the freedom of flight
Our bodies are light as seedpods,
We are opalescent, ready.

Yesterday, heavy with hunger,
the sky,
opened its way to us, now

Below us, some of the hills still wear their shadows,
But even shadows will lift,
Even the frozen road will bend toward sunrise.

We turn, we tumble, we turn again —
to folly, to laughter,
to the simple gift of going on.

Hands open to wings,
wounds bloom into song,
As the weary hills lift their faces to the sky.

The road curves, recursive,
The seasons turn.
Shadows yield.

And in the laughter of the open air,
Our bodies know: they have always known
We were ever meant to rise.

…

Martin © 2025

Painting by Anthea Moffatt ‘Spring Creek Folly’ © 2025