Foothills in Grayscale
Foothills in grayscale
Ascending trails along a Babeling brook
(or rather a Tower that shares its name)
The mire smiles as the rain prepares its sticky hands
To grab the souls of those
Who tread soon overhead too carelessly
Some come as challengers, some come as courters,
But she sighs and turns as men with big sticks
Carve their borders into her bosom
Silver mist conceals her tangled hair,
She is both free and fixed, loved, unkissed
Serene and violent, unquiet, silent.
But the soft pitter-patter of pilgrims
Up her supple slopes awoke the sleeping sun
As sunrays grope their way through the swaying mountain ranges
Shades between black and white
Illuminate with morning’s light
Her paths; They are home for the heartless
Her ashen branches hide where my heart is
She intimates, embraced tightly
Muted colors, (pine needles green)
An epoch age’s ageless dream
The soft breeze blows, no finish line in sight
My 40 years climb wildered heights;
A Burning bush; Another night