It peered over the hill,
away from the road,
a hard line of the horizon.
Always further away than expected,
the rough way up, muddy, unkempt.
Still I cannot explain, why, or how,
my heart grew happy in the chance
to be a youth again.

I stood proud of
the sheared stone masses,
layered eon upon eon,
to give lie to the myth.
Hard against the weather,
as king, lord over all, I surveyed,
my whole world at my feet.

I couldn’t deny that this was
not for my keeping, (yet I have.)
Secrets, hidden for searching,
and an idle moment, passed,
to be sure my past was revealed
and revisited, at long last.

A tree, rooted in rock,
younger than my memories,
soft, but breaking stone.
Here, revered and reassured,
look to the west, always west.
Clouds gather, the rain comes.
While above the forest,
in that sheltered isle
again, smile, consoled,
that this remains.

The view is bleak,
grey sky, brown earth,.
riven, rank with standing water.
Peat is created, corrupted, eroded.
My green age resists the pull,
away down the dank path,
marked for a thousand feet.

The horizon now has other
tales to tell, other places
to reclaim, other stories
to unfold and wonder.
My history is full of them.

Downhill to the woods, dark,
sentient and holy, seeking the
illuminated manuscript paths.
Another tale from other times,
told often, but still absolving.
Out of the light, into my present,
without regret.

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