Who will stroll this high road
if not I?  

I am all things;
chanting of songbirds,
a butterfly choosing my way
in the grain of the wind,
a shimmering horse taking in
the long view, a sheep chewing
that on which I walk, firm rock
in all weather, a ravine tasty with water,

delicate as a shaded fern,
tenacious like the fir,
close to the earth as moss,
heather, prickle pretty gorse,
burning like nettles.
I am the shock of wildflowers,
muck of the gate, snug
in myself as a thatched cottage,

rare as a warm day.

(Dunstan Skinner)