Sabbath in the Hills
Before I backslid myself, I shook my head
over backsliders who felt nearer God’s heart in a garden,
or worshiped just as well in the hills—
yet here I am of a Sunday,
up where the distant steeple looks like the point of a pin.
I’ve found a whole congregation
of white Hobblebush, enveloped in Quaker-ish stillness,
and paused to share it.
It is the seventh of days,
set apart for rest after industry. I have often groomed
the trail here, or reworked a few poems
in the cool of morning. Have left
no word of thanks, forgiveness, or apology unspoken.
Now I reflect on what got done
or redone this week—all perhaps more good than not.
Meanwhile, Hobblebush are the nuns of the hardwood.
To accomplish nothing more
than to be here, alive and together, is their devotion.
In retirement, Russell Rowland continues his work as a trail volunteer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust. His poetry has appeared in over a hundred small journals. His most recent books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications.
Amethyst Review 