Every man has an horizon
The broad sweep of his apprehension
His habitat and the extent of his toil
Hard worked for land and landscape
Familiar ruts and dykes
Dug from his native soil.
Bounded by well walked woody lanes and hedgerows
Full of verdant texture and shape
With pretty worts and flowers
Of varying hue
Scattered round the fence and gate.
Secret animal tracks run here and there
Deserted by day, but at night a thoroughfare.
The sound of birdsong, sweet and true
Echoes through wood and treetop too,
Their song is a praise to God's restful busyness
A counterpoint to man's fruitless restlessness.
As I walk this well worn boundary
And make my way through the familiar yield
I feel the promise of familiar paths
The solid safety of the spacious field.
And with the hearts of all humble, working men
The desire to dream and hope again.
Joe Morriss
19th May 2010
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