It was the wind, perhaps,
Snapping at my sleeve
That made it seem unreal.
By then the air had grown
So thin it hurt to breathe;
The sound of trees would rise,
And gather, and collapse
About us where we stood.
Below us lay the gorge --
White water and dark wood.
It was so close to ease,
That day: we had enough
Of openness and space.
In time the forest's sough
Died down, and we, descending,
Found poppies, a deer's track --
And all of it unreal,
Even looking back.
from Uncertainties and Rest, 1979