Highland Vapours
Cloud wreaths the high lands and blows
like veils in the wind across the road
that cuts through bog and boreal forest.
Somewhere the sun is shining, lights
the bank of cloud and ocean that whitens
the v between hills of schist and gneiss
down below. Fishing Cove, still
remote along a mountain walking trail,
is empty now of MacKenzies and other men
who fished with a few families, shared
their mountain world with moose and bear,
and finally left for peopled places.
We are loosely held on these deep rocks,
garlanded in lace clouds and windblown airs
that bring scents of wild and old things
alive in the cloudy forests and low lying bogs.
They call out their promise of a deceptive peace
as we walk through coyote trails with sticks
to protect our innocence, instructed by rangers
to boldly defy presenting strangers, four-legged
and fierce, who will know our ferocity if we offer it.
The clouds lift over the canyons where waterfalls
sing enticing songs for us far below, the path
winding upward, the hills wrapping us in solidity.
On holiday from one reality we trek through another,
seeing only its beauty, armed with no knowledge
of how satiety and security are gained in that world.
We are visitors in the land of clouds, the sun offering
halos of promise, the stones so old and safe they’ve seen
millions of years pass, and so many creatures walk
over them with so much delight and praise
that they sympathise with us, fellow molecules
held loosely together, passing over like blown mists.
Cloud wreaths the high lands and blows
like veils in the wind across the road
that cuts through bog and boreal forest.
Somewhere the sun is shining, lights
the bank of cloud and ocean that whitens
the v between hills of schist and gneiss
down below. Fishing Cove, still
remote along a mountain walking trail,
is empty now of MacKenzies and other men
who fished with a few families, shared
their mountain world with moose and bear,
and finally left for peopled places.
We are loosely held on these deep rocks,
garlanded in lace clouds and windblown airs
that bring scents of wild and old things
alive in the cloudy forests and low lying bogs.
They call out their promise of a deceptive peace
as we walk through coyote trails with sticks
to protect our innocence, instructed by rangers
to boldly defy presenting strangers, four-legged
and fierce, who will know our ferocity if we offer it.
The clouds lift over the canyons where waterfalls
sing enticing songs for us far below, the path
winding upward, the hills wrapping us in solidity.
On holiday from one reality we trek through another,
seeing only its beauty, armed with no knowledge
of how satiety and security are gained in that world.
We are visitors in the land of clouds, the sun offering
halos of promise, the stones so old and safe they’ve seen
millions of years pass, and so many creatures walk
over them with so much delight and praise
that they sympathise with us, fellow molecules
held loosely together, passing over like blown mists.