Masked Native

Folding mist,

blurred edge of land and sky.

Roads twisting, turning, falling, rising, 

each curve a poem.

Where are you leading me, I asked?

Just keep walking came the reply.

Wavelets bright as stars in a night sky

flashed around a large, grey rock,

grounded in shallow water.

What holds you so still I asked?

Contemplation, came the reply. 

The bright river flowed swift and sure, 

singing to low-lying fields swamped 

in quiet pools, to stones on the river-bed and

under the hump-back bridge in answer to

the distant call of the wild Atlantic Ocean, 

its song familiar somewhere in my heart.

A scattering of cottages dotted hillsides, 

wandering sheep grazed, their wool

snatched on brambles and littered on 

muddy ground like dirty snow.

Curiosity brought them running to the gate,

allowing my brief human touch before retreating,

like goats, scrambling over hillocks and in-between

thorny bushes to watch from a safe distance.

Where do you belong, they asked?

The answer came in a light-filled puddle ,

with my reflection, held, in water, rocks and stones,

mountains, fields, sheep and roads that bind and lead.