light across the sleeping garden, the hills beyond,
shadows painting the old fence in pansy purple
and dusky indigo, fragrant cedars beyond the
pale rustling like thin silk in the hollow wind.
Starlight, moonlight and inky darkness make their
way along the grass under the trees, there's the
light tinkle and swaying movement of wind bells
suspended high from the rafters over my head
in the richly textured fabric of this autumn nightfall.
It's the journey's face, its true and ardent shape,
these lights and darks, those peaks and valleys,
the meandering trail into the bosky hills being
followed by an elderly shapeshifting acolyte -
she's alone and yet magically enfolded on this
windy night in September's middling pages.
Sometimes, just sometimes, being alone in
the hills at night out under the waxing moon
confers a sense of community, a wild and gentle
benediction. It makes the passionate wanderer
long to dance and howl, rejoicing in the light.
Cate (Me)
Reference: esoteric-soup.blogspot.com
