Late afternoon in Lanark, a quiet stretch of country road unwinding over the hill in deep blue shadow, rail fences, snow drowned fields, stands of cedar, hedgerows and ironwood trees arching into the distance at the twilight hour. The view out from the gate and down along the lane is a work in progress — a ribbon or a map unfolding oh so slowly, carrying eyes and breath and spirit off to a calmer place.
Work with words cannot save us.
Nothing can do that,
but perhaps to be saved is not salvation.
I see the trees along this road
turn into smoke at sundown,
and know them for the very ones
I was meant to see.
Michael Hannon, Trees
2 comments:
ahhhh.....what a delight to wander thru your pages.....to see the beauty in everyday and to look out my own widow and embrace the sun. I hardly feel you take poor pictures or write shabby poetry as you mentioned in the Zen book part....to me it is just perfect.....so very simple ....even thou I do not come as often as I should .each time is like Christmas morn........aisling
Great shadows
Trees is a great match with the picture... "the very ones I was ment to see" is a treasure to be stored away in my mind.
Thanks for visiting my blog
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