Rock and Water

There is no-one on God's holy
mountain today, no footprints
in the clay.  The red curved path
descends beyond my sight,
down through the green pine groves.
From down here, where the air is
damp and cool, white boulders
look like sheep dotted
on its slope.  Through my head
a river pours, and in the air
swallows, swifts and house
martins dive and soar.  The
river bed is dry but my ears
are loud with birdsong.  On
my back the summer sun presses
its scorching heat, my skin
sizzles beneath my t-shirt.
Outside is the only place to be
when it does not rain or snow.
Already at half ten though
the night is darker than it was.
The world turns beneath my
feet as the past gives me
pause to sit and feel the water
heavy in my hands.  An
exchange of lands to feel
other than you are:  not what
you were, as if the distance
takes the time and magnifies
it so much you can't
see it anymore.  I have no
chores now except those I
choose for myself.  The compass
sits on my shelf and I don't
touch it.  Up on the mountain
mist rises from the trees like a
soft breath exhaled.
These days, I breathe gently too
against the press of time, the
years, and hope all the wounds
incurred along the way don't
drag me into the river
sweep me away.  I'll get there
soon enough with the wearing
of the water on the rock.  One
bright day.  A day of light.

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