14. Apr, 2020

National Parks

Our cold volcanoes
Fold over ferns and waterfalls;
Clouds cool themselves
In ancient craters;
Old seabeds
Are stranded in the heights,
Keeping their secrets;
Valleys ripple with supple grasses
Where glaciers flowed.
The landscape is stilled,
Tilled and untimbered,
Marked out with fields
For the grazing beasts
And with pathways placed
For the passing gaze
Of our small and tender selves.

Ruth Enright

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