I am
Granite
Moss
Grain
Ocean
River
Rain
Hacked and carved
from blue grey granite
cloaked and cushioned in moss
the deep dug roots of twisted trees
reach down in the dark of my bones
ocean air bends branches down
clutching at my hair,
but still, I am not there.
Aware of the flow of rivers,
the wide slow curve of the river,
through green and rolling hills,
I am swept away to another place
to rest in fields of grain.
My spirit wanders far from home.
I fall in summer rain
High on Cader Idris’ peak, the lake,
bordered, bearded by reeds
not a ripples passes
across its silver mirrored face
the day is grey, enchanted
Arthur’s seat, a granite throne,
where I sit today, alone,
in quiet, dreaming contemplation
of golden days that may return
to bless the green land far below
”Are you here, are you there?”
my words escaping to air
the reeds sing and sigh in return
as they bow and are still again
as a wisp of a mist roles in
in an empty room
i held my breath
in silence
with thoughts of a lonely granite rock
far out to sea
where the cry of birds is deafening
where the surf spray rises in air
and the high sky above is grey
The white gate stands, closed,
at the top of the grey winding road.
The broad green slopes of the pasture
lead down to the shining lake,
a silvered mirror to sunlight.
At first dawn the vale fills with mist.
A line of treetops, drawn on white,
with a tender brush, nothing more.
All is hidden. Nothing exists here now.
It waits to be born with the sun.
An ancient woodland sits in shadow,
deep at the edge of the valley,
where the cry of the circling kestrel
splits the air. He calls to his mate aloft.
The sound defines the distance.
On a hot summer day
the grey road burns and shimmers,
running past old stone walls and banks of wild flowers,
wilting, in afternoon heat.
My feet on the road raise fine dust.
Woven into these hills the grey road runs down
past ruined ivy clothed archways.
They stand alone in a field,
all that remains of a mansion,
a home, and people long gone.
Beyond, is the farmhouse,
built of timber and granite.
It sits as if rooted in earth
nested into a curve,
strong enough to withstand any storm.
In the farmyard the mud is baked hard.
The old sheep dog twitches one ear as I pass.
He knows me too well to rise. He is tired.
His thick coated son wags his tail at me.
He is always on guard.
I walk on past my own cottage door
into a grove of birch saplings,
mingled with older trees, cedar and oak.
In spring this place is flooded with vibrant blue,
the sharp, pungent scent of bluebells fills the air.
In this magical wood, at the far end,
I have often glimpsed the fair folk.
They don’t chase me away. I leave them in peace.
This is a place where two worlds cross.
The door is held open, and welcome.
Now I come to rest in the shade
on this burning bright summer day.
I lean my back against the moss clad old oak
and dream the rest of the day away,
long past this, and every other, evening.
The old standing stone, at the heart of the valley,
remains always cool to the touch.
At night when the stars are out, in moonlight,
the stone is encircled, embraced by a perfect bowl
of such beauty, it takes away my breath.
The Dreaming Path 