http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/hiker-scottish-highlands/

I took my pack
and my stave
sent my feet to the North
to the misty highlands
for to see God’s creation

Past the stone bridge
the river lane
between the throng of trees
do they e’er cross over
I wondered

Do they meet
now and then
when men have gone to rest
do they stride, stately
in their mossy cloaks

For as I walked
among those sentinels
they waved and they creaked
as if souls aching
to wander

The trees whispered
behind their broad
mighty hands
secret sayings
chanting, praying

These grand souls
lifted their cathedral arches
to the heavens
their mossy feet finely laced
in the earth

They were all at one
the ancient elders
the congregants
the foundation
and the vault

How could I be lost
in that forest house
striding as a penitent pilgrim
before their graceful pillars
they command reverence

I could lose myself there
in God’s majestic
brooding creation
that holy place
silent and vital

Under stained glass windows
of canopies unending
miles of green sparkling
in the blue and sun rays
I found myself

A little smaller.

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Silver Strand

March 30, 2017

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Set out on the strand
the silver ribbon
at the end of the land
a finger dipped
into the sea
it had called to me

That sand
kissed by the water
burned my feet
blinded my eyes
and the tide
whispered shush to me

On the low, dry crests
in the long grass
and the scree
the wind swirled sand
and feathers
and chills all round me

This place is not
what I paint here
it is roads and men
and beds and board
busy and bright
and spins all about me

But with my eyes closed
I can see it better
lonely and left
singing softly
to the distance
with an audience of me

Forgetting How To See

March 29, 2017

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In the dimming light
I stumbled more than once
it was like forgetting
how to see
there in the deep oaks

But the scent
of my wandering
was overwhelmed
as I slowly went blind
I touched the twilight

The loam and leaves
they spiraled around me
in a mist of fragrance
and I was led further
into the deep oaks

They brought the fresh tang
of water and stone
of mushrooms and
perhaps faeries
or something alive

That thinks and breathes
I felt it pass me by
more than once
a fleeting flicker
of roses or moss

It tasted, almost
like enchantment and bones
of something older than old
and as the moon rose
and all turned to silver

I stumbled again
lost in that hall
of secrets and incense
a silent passage
into dreaming

But I was awake.