Landscapes

Landscapes The landscape I walk, used to be guarded by stone hedges; infinite supply of stones this soil yields if not much else. Nature has taken back what man did, the landscape is lush of weed, and bent trees. I’m sliding into silence, but if I listen I can hear Spanish bluebells peal in a mild breeze that also carries a whisper of a Nordic lullaby, Last year a Canadian couple walked with me, their ancestors came from around here. We stopped outside a ruin and they went silent, cried. An ancient memory stirred they knew this place. Where their tears had fertilized the ground, is, this year, full of wild flowers. No, they are not returning, Canadians now and proud of that too. I sit on a stone, not by the river of Babylon, and see how the brook, free from icy shackles elatedly run, will not heed words of caution. I have made boats of bark, and sail of green leaves, see them hasten towards the North Sea. The brook is no more, indifference has seen to that, but the landscape of my childhood is clear as a stream.