Connections in High Places
Green Moor, South Yorkshire
On this isle in the sky
an etched steel disk anchors me to Earth.
Through it I see long distance, where
I am. A point in time and space.
To the west, sounding like those big-boned,
big-bosomed nanas of my childhood,
Margery Hill softly rolls a shoulder
to raise the county’s highest ground.
To the east, there’s nothing between
me and the Urals, just thousands of miles.
Ancient wrinkles on a broad, flat face;
the babushka who has seen it all.
Down the valley, the city where
I came in, on a path that leads back
to a lass in a brown-paper apron
buffing silver spoons and forks.
I never knew my grandmother
yet at this elevation, overlooking now,
I touch what has gone before, feel
my part in what may come along
this invisible thread, this ley line
to who and where I will never know.
No matter. We are connected,
the Urals, Margery, Lilian and I.