This could be forever, finally
field after field wheat
and a dance and the wind weaves
in a long rush: gold
Waves of it, that soft hiss
from here to the distant edge
where it looks like
you can fall off the world
but you don't. We know that.
Breathe
It's morning. The sky is on
every side of us, far away
out there clinging
to the ground.
Sharon Thomson