On The Infinite Poem by Knute Skinner

Your lonely hill was dear to you, as was
The hedge which masked your view of the horizon.
I read your words here in my home in Clare
And look out on a hill that is dear to me,
A gradual rise of meadow, rich with grass,
Divided part way up by an old stone wall,
Half fallen here and there, beset with briars.
A solitary boulder, left behind
When the field was cleared for grazing, interrupts,
Whitely, the green that rises toward the sky;
And at the top green shrubs show in their shapes
The tireless action of the Atlantic wind.
And as I sit, viewing this scene, I know
That I occupy the other side of your hill
And the other side of time, such as it is.