As the days draw in
I will head south,
past the lake’s glacial blue,
up the curving road
where the mountain shines,
beyond the musterer’s hut
on whose walls names are etched.
It is always better here:
the light is clearer, brighter
and falling leaves are
tumbling russet and gold;
the roads thread into
brooding hills where men
lean on pickups to discuss
the ills of the world.
There is no time here.
It ends when the seal
gives way to shingle,
where the landscape opens
to show the country’s heart.