I Am Thinking Poem by Sally Evans

I am thinking how a bus stopped
in a village unknown to me,
how I walked and waited
as in Northumberland
by gravel drives
and stone gate pillars
framed in green.
I am thinking how the hills
parted by a glacier
threw long slow shadows
stolen from daytime.

I am thinking how all passed by
and I passed through,
riding, watching,
how the village
made by others
was hidden,
how the hills
made of substance,
threw forth gravel, stone
and allowed grass.

More than that,
I am wondering
whence the split, uncomprehending
fragments of soul, fell,
gravel among the people.
Was it from a great block?
Was it split by action
of grinding ice?
Is this moraine
capable of growing grass,
dear, green, sweet grass?

On a village seat
made by others,
I am thinking
on a village seat
made by others
watching the gravel,
waiting for no bus.