Light makes our home. Waking to blue, sliding on grey, dark indigo and back to more boreal azure... By the time we stopped at the top of my favourite hill, I looked towards the Atlantic, laced in grey silk. A front would re-paint our afternoon sky; the land down to the ocean hides all the passible treasures from spring. There in the land of the raven... Miles of mires, mirrors and dreams.
Light disappears nearly as fast as a galloping horse...
Everything changes. Birds turn silent as the wind talks. We all find shelter where we can... Under a patch of tussock grass, behind stone walls.
And then we hope it will not last.
And then I'm back in Arcania.
from the heights of Arcania,
where west wind rules this ravens' land,
I live inside this rainbow sky
and watch rain come.
2.5 miles till you reach out to horizon;
our sun dazzles patches of black,
mane of a maid tangled in kelp men don't believe in any more...
And feel the shapes of scissor-cliffs,
green pinnacles lost in a soup
ruled by a greater cosmic clock,
as I look downto find you asleep in the sand.
© Nat Hall 2010