“Isle of Mull, Scotland”
Because by now we know everything is not so green elsewhere.
The cities tied their nooses around our necks,
we let them without even seeing.
Not even feeling our breath soften
as clumps of shed wool scattered across days.
Not even. This even-ing, balance beam of light on green,
the widely lifted land, resonance of moor
winding down to water, the full of it. Days of cows
and sheep bending their heads.
We walked where the ancient pier juts into the sea.
Stood on the rim of the pool, by the circle
of black boulders. No one saw we were there
and everyone who had ever been there
stood silently in air.
Where else do we ever have to go, and why?