Make it new-port

Newport

Bunched hills,
July's dry, umber fields,
green-gathered copses of
occasional trees,

Clouds unfurl in sky, retain this
somber light, this expanding collection
of blue eternities,

Small, brick homes remind me
now and then that I am in England,
on a train, though this seems something far
and nameless, like passing deep through the
belly of some marvelous mound.