A Sketch

I hear him humming as he drives his car, In mellow baritone, an ancient psalm-- Drifting down to his subtle modern brain From his old covenanting ancestors, Who strode bare-kneed through purple heather bloom, Praising their God on wind-swept Highland hills. I am his wife. Beside him vividly, I see now not the crowded city streets, Through which he presses, strong, aloof and calm, Factories and shipyards where his vast machines Whirr steadfastly, obedient to his brain-- I see now just those small and golden hours When he is mine.

Cinquains