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How a walk becomes a poem.

Yesterday's walk 1st Oct 11. How a walk becomes a poem.

Every little cobweb hung with drops of dew, like filigree hammocks or intricate embroidery cups of grey the appeared to have a blue glow among the bilberry twigs, the colour of the mist that wandered among the tree tops creating a fairy tale atmosphere like a stage setting, unreal.

The damp path of fir and pine needles, mud and stones occasionally descending into moss and boggy mires that squelched underfoot, or when we had to walk along fallen logs or balance on grass tufts and small bushes to get across a wet patch.

As we climbed the last steep mud path under the sky high trees, their trunks of rust, greys and whites, we became acutely aware that the silence was complete, as if all things had become muted by the moisture, only the tramp of our feet audible.

The lakes Upper Shining and Lower Shining, were pale still leaden'd grey, no longer reflecting the blue skies and clouds, a dull sheen like old silver held floating lily pads anchored to the bottom of the lake, or appearing to be tethered to the soft turf banks that rocked the water into rings.

How wonderful it would have been to have seen a beaver or a moose step out of the forest; occasionally woodpeckers called and flew about, no insects on the wing, everything seemed on hold.

On the way down from the heights. two cross-country cyclists passed, bumping and flying over the rocks and making deep dark furrows in the muddy sections, dangerously; disturbing the peace of the woods and ruining the path for us; but man and nature have to share each others territory and neither have the right to dominate the other.

Mute trees, grey mists, floating lily pads,
silent lakes;

bland surfaced mirrors, still, no insects buzz,
sudden call of the woodpecker.

Tall firs a backcloth magical, mysterious,

brown, red and white tree trunks,
muddy mires;

galaxies of webs, jeweled hammocks,
bilberry twigs;

squelch, slip, slop, a strenuous walk,
warm, damp.


Just reading this on October 2 and what a beautiful morning it is here in Florida as well.

Ann I took this walk with you and love how you splendidly gave me the visual and the scents of the trail. Now if only we could produce a picture to our poems here. For now it nestles in my mind and a lovely picture you painted in words.

Happy to see you here this morning friend


how lovely to read your wonderful gift for descriptive again annanya

this is just beautiful... and shows just how you see the world, and how it inspires your beautiful poetry

love and biggest hugs
i have missed you
your judyanne

'Each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They are.'
(Rudyard Kipling)

Thank you for commenting Mona, I am so very glad it took you on the walk with me, that's the idea.
Love Ann.

judyanne, how lovely to communicate with you again, I have been away so long, when I have taken my Christmas Paper Clipping course in December I shall really try to be with-it more. Yes this is how I spend my retirement days, watching, listening, smelling and feeling nature's every whim and noting on all sorts of bits of paper details that interest me.

Like the vision, real, of hundreds of cranes in a field on my way to the mountains, how very privileged I felt being able to watch them in the cornfield, but not close enough to see well...I am so privileged. Thank you my dear judyanne, annanya.

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

author comment

No one else came on my walk or added thoughts about how poems come like this. ? Ann

"The image of yourself which you see in a mirror Is dead,
but the reflection of the moon on water, lives." Kenzan.

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