What astounds cannot be

​What astounds cannot be 
the remnant of what 
has been.
Tomorrow still blind 
advances slowly.
Sight and light 
race towards each other, 
and from their embrace 
is born the day, 
eyes open 
tall as a foal.
Murmuring river 
clasps the mist 
for a moment more.
The peaks are signing on 
the sky.
Stop and hear 
the milking machines 
designed to suck like calves.
In the first heat 
the forested hills calculate 
their steepness.
The lorry driver is taking the road 
to the pass which leads 
surprisingly 
with its own familiarity 
to another homeland.
Soon the grass will be 
warmer 
than the cows’ horns.
The astounding comes 
towards us 
outrider of death and birth.
 
John Berger