SHRIFT AMONG HILLS
The gaunt stones upright on nude fells
Alone shall be his gods: naught else
Hold his urgent blood and sense
Subdued in proud stern reverence.
Only to these who make their house
Among clean winds he bends his brows.
On their austere lips he shall place
The spent passions of his face.
The cupped midnight like a great bowl
Shall lave him. He shall go forth whole.