On the land they call Linley
That once was a wasteland
That, underfoot, is still,
The frost, being unset by her
Bejewelled the grass.
The near-distant harshness of cars
Surrounded me
As I stood on the summit
Looking south
Being warmed
By her heat.
The bright blue sky
Was the wash on which
She painted herself
And her portrait
Her face
Was too beautiful to see.