Invisible

Peaceful warmth of summer
silent mornings
stillness
misty dawn
even the birds don't see me
as I walk by.

Roz2013

The call of home...

By the fence at the end of the garden there is a sheer drop. I am high above Tobermory, on the Scottish island of Mull, looking down upon the crisp cold winter town.
The stick trees are bare and covered with ice. Surrounding islands seem so near on this blue water, blue sky day, though there are clouds in the distance promising rain.
All this beauty...the mountains...everything, will one day vanish back to the crazy universe, for we are all petals of a great unfolding cosmic flower. But for now old Alba looks majestic and proud as she stands in her frozen beauty. Her songs and mysteries wrap me in the warm blanket of her proud history.
When the heart sounds the call, it is time to touch the shores of home.
A piper on a distant hill is playing a sad lament, stirring the landscape into a swirl of mist and longing. The song of the bagpipes is the sound of the Soul as it moves through the people in the land of my birth.
It feels like the summit of Ben Nevis up here as I look out on distant lands, and I am sure I can see the coast of Ireland. The smell of sweet moist air lingers for hours in this ancient land of the Cruithne, with its bobbing boats and brightly painted buildings.
The little bush in the garden still has its leaves; a strange sight among the shivering naked trees. The flowers are quietly stirring and await the glory of springtime.
The wind whistles a familiar song of childhood memories, while the new life of spring slowly unfolds...

Roz2012