The hills fold over and fold over again
a crumpled ball of ancient earth
through which water flows
and water falls
and the path is hung
on tight contours.
I want to get lost in this velveteen
origami of infinite green
I want to fall deep into creases
In canopied places
and not know my way
back to sky.
There, I will lie down soft
on moss river bed
and dream of
hunter gatherer sharpening stone
chieftain soon to be overthrown
forager, farmer, fisherman
and fortune seeker of red tinted ore
and limestone core
or Victorian dame onboard steam train
or raindrop that froze
millennia ago
and gauged this land into
ice-carved slant.
For time too folds over and over again
and blanket bog swallows up those who were here before
and ladder farms thin to ridge and air
and too neat rows
of spruce and pine
deny the ancient lines of long ago.
But just as a river unravels to sea
I am a traveller
with elsewhere to be
until
one day time too
folds over
me.
Lynda Hewitt
The hills fold over and fold over again
a crumpled ball of ancient earth
through which water flows
and water falls
and the path is hung
on tight contours.
I want to get lost in this velveteen
origami of infinite green
I want to fall deep into creases
In canopied places
and not know my way
back to sky.
There, I will lie down soft
on moss river bed
and dream of
hunter gatherer sharpening stone
chieftain soon to be overthrown
forager, farmer, fisherman
and fortune seeker of red tinted ore
and limestone core
or Victorian dame onboard steam train
or raindrop that froze
millennia ago
and gauged this land into
ice-carved slant.
For time too folds over and over again
and blanket bog swallows up those who were here before
and ladder farms thin to ridge and air
and too neat rows
of spruce and pine
deny the ancient lines of long ago.
But just as a river unravels to sea
I am a traveller
with elsewhere to be
until
one day time too
folds over
me.
Lynda Hewitt
