Malvern Hills

Here, on these bare–backed hills
that leap like porpoises
out of tilled flatness,
where kestrels stand on air
and kites kick high,
Langland slept
and dreamed his ploughman dream:
Elgar flew kites
and caught great leaping
cadences of sound.

I fashion no Gerontius,
dream no epic.
But as I climb behind
my nimbler daughter,
I am surprised by gladness
like a spring
of cool, fresh water.