The trees turn early in the late summer sun, Yellow and gold against a soft cerulean sky, The sun goddess bursting through the leaves Birch bark shining white at her touch.
Deep in the Passages in the rock An unwritten history is lost in the dark. Timeless, wordless, it is written in each vanished block And every miner’s mark. Reason whitewashed like the lime,
Chalk white, pitch black, And silent as the grave. Druids, Romans, Saxons Echo through the rock, Like flint sparks in the tinderbox; Here and gone, only ghosts remain.
Lured by the need to lose the daily grind, Amidst the greens and browns that are easy on the eye And gentle on the soul. I seek out Wilder places, where solitude can roam.