Member Poem

There’s not an ounce of fat on him:
thin, like the scraggy grass that feeds his sheep
he is the product of these hills, as they are.
Behold, the ridge and dale of him,
boulder chin and craggy nose exposed
above the heather moor of threadbare tweed.
The eyes, set deep in caves
beneath the cliff wall of his brow
let nothing slip.
But look at them at sunset
when the light is on his face
and see there his secret:
This place does not bind him
as towns will tether other men.
Reflected in those eyes you see
only the boundless ocean of the sky.