Yesterday these hills were golden
beckoning Springs approach
Today the air is filled with wisps floating on the winds
the edges of this walk strewn with wildflowers and weeds
Under the shadow of a village
built long ago
walnuts grow in straight rows
bare and naked
the earth long ago ploughed into submission.
A sign welcomes the hunters.
A deer leaps over the path in front of me.
The woods
mysterious - evoke plots and dangerous liaisons
The path steepens
My heart beats louder
in my ears
I pause for breath
These 61 years are showing themselves
They grow oak trees here
Fenced off from marauders
ready to steal the truffles that lie beneath,
the tree discarded when it reaches maturity.
The rain is soft.
Drifting in and out
with birdsong and distant traffic.
The oaks are beginning to unfurl
furry pale leaves
cupped and protective
till they become stronger
against sun, wind and storm
The inevitable fork in the road-
there are so many.
By habit I venture where I
have already been.
Looking to cement this walk
in my mind when I am
a world away
from this place and time.
I amble along.
No race for me.
The pilgrimage is the placement
of each foot
each observation.
Scent caught on the breeze,
the taste of freedom
and the sound of my silenced mind.
I walk in another’s shoes.
Gum boots left at the barn.
I walk fearlessly through
the mud and water that pools on the path
encouagining more timid to fall
prey to the raspberry thorns
of the dry edges.
The walnut is now bedecked with leaves.
It’s blossoms some weeks ago profound
now recede.
The path today adorned with hawthorn flowers
bees swarm.
I come to the part of the promenade
I call the portals.
For three seasons I have walked under their arches.
Always reminded of my friend Kate
ever looking for doorways to another world.
From this ridge I can see the barn
below;
the abandoned blue commer van
holding the corners.
Past the ruins of Vernode Keep
drop into English neighbors for a cuppa
which turns into wine.
Two hours later
rain falling I continue.
Past coo-ing pigeons,
a walled garden, a manse with a turret,
I turn right past fields of wheat.
I dawdle along a winding track,
looking at horseshoe prints
wildflowers
and ponder
what it all means.
Back on the road to the barn,
the verges lined with dandelion.
A weed, a tea, a tonic, a soil fixer.
A welcomer and preparer of good
things to come.
I pick up a seed head and make a wish,
for many happy returns .
