We watch the mountains emerge from the mist, as if they are brand new, the energy is certainly brand new. It emanates from the rock vibrating our very being, like they have only just arrived. We climb into them in twists and turns, as intruders in their realm, we watch their work with water. We observe the mountain’s vertical forests feeding clouds to the sky, we see them build and march into the blue. Higher we see water cascading high above us from the rock. As we approach the peak we find water’s final form hiding in the mist, snow bringing a sparkling chill. Before we descend, zig zagging down the other side of the mountain. To the lush valley receiving the mountain’s gifts.
As I sit in the Italian castle, I enjoy the cool breeze blowing through the open window, fresh blossom tantalises the senses. The afternoon light hits the ancient rafters lighting them in rusty hues. Through one window, the green hills roll elegantly, scattered in villas and cyprus trees. Through the right window I see Siena’s Torre Del Mangia in the distant haze. In the next room a lady sings beautifully as she cleans. A nice day.
They have peppered their peaks with holes, as if they were beetles with new wood. Every cove sprouts concrete warts. The tarmac arteries are clogged with mechanical cholesterol. The bay’s beauty long ago smothered. I can feel her heavy heart through the ether.
The ground gathered into a mountain, to prick the sky’s ego.
We are all an ocean, temporarily residing in our own bucket, the only thing preventing us being one, is this bucket. Perhaps dear Lisa we get a hole in our bucket, or sometimes look a little pale. When we finally spill from our bucket, our bucket is kicked. We merely return to the ocean.