seven miles away
the horizon frames the sky;
that assumes there are no hills or trees,
or clouds to mar the clarity of sight –
a bad assumption on this earth,
filled as it is with weather, dirt and life.
seven miles away…
a nothingspace, a flicker and a breath,
the measure of the gap between a birth and death.
that is on the best of days – come humidity or cloud,
when vapor draws around us like a shroud,
and that horizon rushes in,
like dust thrown up before a wind,
it slaps us even as we gaze,
the squinting victims of distance haze.
then the thickening of night,
when distance haze reduces sight
to just beyond the nose, at best…
yet that is when we fools think we are blest -
we cannot see, and so forget.