The Time will come by emma-jane PETERSON

Distant sheep dot the hillside,

as lint on a green, plaid sweater.

Wind-felled trees have fallen

into a wigwam of pins. Peat water

threads a brown line from field

to field, sewing a hem to fence

in the cows. A torrent spills

lacework from high rock into river.

Foxgloves leap from bracken,

luring butterflies from the mellow

to the exotic. All the loveliness

of a Welsh pastoral scene, enduring

through time, feeling, memory.

That it could survive the coming,

and the burning; and whatever

new Earth may be blessed to arise.