And certain evenings, something in the balance
falls to the dewpoint where our minds condense
and then inslides itself between moments
and spills the heart from its circumference;
and this is when the moon matchlessly opens
and you can feel by instinct in the distance
the bigger mountains hidden by the mountains,
like intentions among suggestions.
excerpt from 'Mountains' by Alice Oswald
from her collection: 'The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile'