the normal way

the name is wrong the memory still right

of the grey trees beside the drystone wall

fruiting in summer so lush in recall

and seen so clearly in approaching night

as we looked up to see the birds in flight

the setting sun that gorgeous red ball

as into the green sea it seemed to fall

made of it one stark blessing of a sight

we cannot know what goods may come to pass

on this hard journey up and down the hill

but dare not bid a single minute stay

yet what we see reflected in the glass

is not the force either of wit or will

but all the markings of the normal way