where the wild sea is borne
the wild borne sea, the true salted places w/those sandbanks and even the broken bits of shells are okay, glistening somehow in the dawn, and in the afternoon light. cargo ships on the horizon, like ghosts vessels moving in an etheric ephemeral eternal astral. walking away along the shores there is a place w/bricks and stones where people had a fire, and the dirt roads that curve up to the right just so and long past verdant palm trees and the countenance of the lands, lands rugged and strange, mystical and beautiful, ancient and new that boast of beige sand more plus other indigenous flora and fauna, where the hills look like faces of spirits that don’t have a classification and have never been seen before, where the rains when they descend tell myriad stories and the sun after is a calm and right poem not too long or short, but perfectly accessible then.
that old path
that old path, new again, the one at the northern most place. how different than other paths, more vast and w/taller trees. there is a long and straight part that is perhaps my favourite. framed by verdant leaves in the summer’s sun and snowy branches along winter’s way whimsical. the path is always right and well. we must go to there again, more often. somehow we waited too long since that last time. oh that old path, where the evergreens grow and the birds wait beyond, where the north mingles with the south insomuch that you can begin to feel hints there of the truth of winds wild and vast lands, of unabridged nature in its season’s cycles wonderfully rugged rural rustic.
silence and wonder, far and far
on the summit of an otherwise wide field banked by a valley on one end and a forest on the other, it had began to snow. I remember that, and at that part there is sumac and apparently there are two kinds in the world and I’m not sure which one it is. it is a thing because it retains its colour like the evergreens, all through the changing seasons. and there was a lower field at the end w/an entrance to where chaga mushrooms sought by many, lived upon old birch trees. if you went in there you had to tread slowly as the path goes winding and up and down and you are then certainly all alone. you have to really respect the land there and it wouldn’t hurt to say a little prayer for safe passage. but it is worth it, full of silence and wonder and atmosphere,- the trees and leaves and earth and little streams are touched by the outside world. what a home for the woodland squirrel and any other thing. even the wind is blocked for the most part. the wind…the wind…the say new December wind that races through fields announcing its story for anyone that would listen.
sun cloud valley
the sun shone through the clouds and married then the floor of the valley where there are hidden but once found, distinct footpaths. who made the paths is not known, but even with the leaves they are still pronounced enough to travel. and the snow. it began snowing then and the clouds and the light and the small breeze cold made for a good scene and sight. what would the winter bring to those lands of birch and sumac, of mushroom and agate, of tall proud evergreen and old fallen leaves? the winter like the spring and summer and fall, is by no means one dimensional, but like a person or country, or like many things, has different aspects. but yes for then,- the sun and the clouds and the light snow and the wind all visited the valley. the valley housing different paths up and down and around,- paths like lines of some larger poem or story.
