I must remember that horizon
I ought to turn my head
The full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees
We walk around the pond
We sit on the bench to talk
I return to my room, to proofread
The horizon, from this new viewpoint
Is not so strong, a darker sea
Muffles the colours concentrations
A fainter line; a cloud line
With that uncertainty of purpose
Certainly not the edge of the world
I must remember this line of hills
Where the land and skyline turn
As the water of life flows from loch to sea
We walked along minor roads
Then ventured out onto cart tracks
Drawn by the pull of the shoreline
Our house was on the hill
Though which house, on which hill
Would we ever wish to return to
