the peace

The Peace.

The upper village is morning cold, chimney smoke
rise in still air; dogs, that sleeps in sheds, sit now by
the east wall huddled together facing the sun, see
me and there are greetings, a slow wagging of tails.
The air is so incredible clear I can see the houses on
the slopes of the hazy mountain where dogs sit and
face the same sun; I know I’m witnessing a flick of
eternity when other people and their dogs will walk
across the landscape and have the same dreams and
hopes as we had. Pedro is outside smoking, his wife
won’t let him smoke inside, turns the curtain yellow,
she says, the tobacco aroma drifts my way, wonderful.
A peaceful pocket on earth, my valley is; but I do fear
an easterly wind might bring the smell of cordite.