Coming Back

by Wendy Searle

Horizons keep soliciting. Time’s imperceptible:
a shift of lines dividing inky shadow
from hot brilliance, or bells rinsing the hills
at evening, the sign for villagers to follow
donkeys down steep terraces before the land
sinks under a sea of stars. But we must leave,
pining on paths that funnel us to ever blander
roads, accelerate, twisting necks to seize
a glimpse of grandeur receding, disgruntled
by the slap of rain like a sodden blanket
smothering the strait, vistas truncated
to trucks, billboards, shop-fronts reflecting traffic
until we’re back, like outsize Alices,
shoe-horned into the flat, bereft of magic.