Standing, gazing at the sun splashed mountains

All around,

Wind whines through telephone wires,

Singing of;

Days upon lonely chaparal,

Fresh snow high on bare grey rock

Above the tree line,

Cold,

And time.

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Walking, back along the sunny headland,

Dogs ahead,

Another wind murmuring though tall pines,

Sighing of;

Sun drenched purpled hills

Sweeping down to azure glistening seas

Washing golden sand

Heat,

And time again.

   

Watching, hang gliders soar amid towering clouds

Turn toward,

A lifting wind whispering a joyous chorus,

Singing of;

Castles of whitewashed clouds

Pillowing in an airy ocean with a mountain shore

Green against the sky,

Warm,

With wind and time.

 

By Nicholas Grimshawe

                             

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