From pond to stream, to wood, to hill, to city street, to urban garden, this blog came out of time spent just being and an awareness of belonging that runs so far below the surface of my self, it is beyond debate and discussion and shapes my very being….
When our sense of belonging goes deeper than enjoying a view or appreciating a flower, when it lies so deep that we can no longer separate joy, sorrow and the land, then, maybe, we belong.
The twisted heather stalks of my nerves,
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| a heart reach from small... |
Are threaded with veins,
Pickled by generations of whisky.
Clouded skies reflect in clouded eyes,
And I am bound to these hills,
So closely, i can no longer
Separate bone from stone.
My joy burned out with the heather,
Delight drifting on the smoke
Withering with scorched fur and scales,
But I am still here,
As skin sifts into sand,
And sand into skin,
And flesh slips into earth.
But soul,
Soul and spirit dissolve
Into mist and a sunset
Burning long and bright behind northern hills.
G MacLellan, June 2016
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| to wide horizons |
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