Winding Roads

Winding Comeragh roadOn winding roads, the destination appears within reach, around the next corner, past weathered clumps of dried grass, each twist and turn bringing more of the same. Time waits for no man, so they say, but I’m not in a hurry, the air is fresh, clean. Mountain sheep invite me to stay awhile. We meet in mutual consideration, acknowledge footsteps, insignificant in eyes that long only to arrive. This winding, mountain road holds me, spellbound, rooted, my destination, here, now.

Crow

crows

I am crow.

Crow I see.

Black, my colour for Swan to greet.

I am swan. With Crow I see.

White is my colour, for tears to weep

in a river-weed tangle around my beak.

I am the river. With Swan I hold

secrets, to carry and tell to the sea,

where the song of the deep will know the truth,

seen in the eyes of peacock, blue.

I am peacock, a rainbow frieze

of beauty and love and broken dreams.

With phoenix I walk to the setting sun,

the night will soon be overcome.

I am Phoenix. In flames I tread.

From ashes I rise with a golden egg.

Crow wants to know what I can see.

I am Crow. Crow is me.