Promise III - Distance

The distant hills do not blend with the sky,
But stand against it, rough, craggy and sharp;
They’re etched upon a mind that won’t comply:
A broken symmetry that echoes; part
Of you is torn away each time you see
The way they sit so close; they almost touch
The shock of your surprise; proximity
Must seem so dissonant, you have to clutch
The sill, as you stare out and take them in:
These gritty objects with harsh qualities;
And you know this is it: but drink it in -
This sense that harshness always means you’ll please
Me well enough indeed with your devotions
Amidst those distant hills that do not blend
With any other feature – stillness motions
Capitulation; it ensures you’ll bend
And bare when it’s demanded and, of course,
You’ll welcome every thought that simply thrills
And pacifies you, with a show of force;
So cries ring out amidst those distant hills.