I see it as a memory,

gleaming.

The stooks of corn

the patient folk

coming home from evening church.

There's something strange

as in a dream,

and over all

the moon hangs

like a golden sovereign

heavy with summer

and the deep rich night.

I want to join them

in their solid procession.

I want to follow them

to their humble homesteads.

To a life of planting and sowing

and finding peace

in a good harvest.

To dwell between

those hills like breasts

hummocked against a velvet sky

and crowned with the summer tri-angle.

Inspired by the painting - Coming Home from Evening Church by Samuel Palmer