A Terminal Moraine

It's simple but I find it hard to explain
Why I should wish to go from the moraine.

Below me in the wide plains I can see
Straight roads through flat fields, a measured sea.

At night with its orange lamps the city raised
To a dome, the fields lost under haze.

Above where a vein of granite and a stream
Are indistinguishable sometimes the crags seem

To totter against the moving clouds. Those dots
Of orange represent climbers on the rocks.

At night I can see nothing of the valley behind,
Though from the bleating of the sheep my mind

Constructs with points as on a graph the curved
Recess. A stream gathers and swerves

A few yards before my hill. Here there are trees,
Mainly pines, and every sudden breeze
...