From the hilltop that overlooks my Valley home,
I look down and witness the birth of another day.
Like a magic illusion the morning mist
fades into its own obscurity.
The seductive texture of softness
is transformed into a sharp focus of light.

I see rows of terraced houses with grey slate roofing
washed clean by yesterday’s rain.
A disorderly, yet orderly pattern of brightly coloured,
freshly painted front doors.
Railway trucks filled with their precious cargo of black gold,
waiting, patiently, to be taken somewhere – or nowhere.
A place where the eye views the darkness,
but the mind defines its beauty.

The valley floor swept with the blackened waters
from crystal clear springs.
I see the richness through the blackness,
and wonder where it ends
and where it begins.
I see clothes hanging motionless on a washing line,
and feel locked in the stillness of time.
My valley lies dormant beneath my feet.
I listen to the sound of sleep, and hear nothing.
I listen to the sound of nothing
and hear the cry of an unborn lamb;
the lapping tongue of a field mouse
as it drinks a raindrop from a buttercup;
sounds only heard by a quiet mind.
A pigeon flies through the valley’s sky,
racing against tiredness and time.
I wonder where it’s been, and where it’s going,
and wonder where the sky begins,
and where it ends.
As I stand higher than a bird in flight,
has my world been turned upside down?

Life stirs in the valley below
as the white black smoke
erupts from sooty chimney pots.
I breathe in the fumes of another dawn.
I run my fingertips on the grass
and touch my lips with the morning dew.
I taste the coolness of night,
and feel the warmth of a new day.

Rowland Hughes ©