The Plain of Mists

Inspired by the absolutely awesome light I saw in this area, during a recent trip to Queenstown, Tasmania. My birthplace and an area still holding that primordial sense of a world being birthed, when you step even just a few metres from the road.  So much change over the last thirty years - yet so much not.


The Plain of the Mists

Purlieu

I crossed over a place,
as a temporary wayfarer does, 
up and over, that world from which I came.
Where forests of childhood memories

are now mere islets of trees,
and scrub now steppes and plains.

And those plains, those ancient plains,

as childhood long left and cold,
Hold a special light.
With clouds limned in radiance.
Enshrouding nearby ranges,
an argent light is reflected...refracted...
draping carelessly, 
spreading unearthly rays,
drawing me in 
through the darkened glass of time.

Rivers sing quietly, muted by foliage

While ghosts of the road makers

Whisper a counterpoint to the

Echoes of ancient, primeval indiginy.

The mist, a tangible amnion,

Holding back the universe,

Keeping in the dreaming.

A subtle murmuring of voices long gone

Can be heard underneath

The gentle sussuration

Of barely moving grasses.

Whispers of the tiger's cough are

Filtered through fingers of mist,

prying...

flicking through my primal fears

sighing....

The muted percussion

of horses' feet stumbling through

the tussock grass, its'

buttons flicking their flanks,

sound along with

the scream of the saw

and the dull thunk of the axe, 

as they fall the ancient giants

feeding the strident devil's maw.

The screams of a past devoured.

A long inhale.

Exhale.

Mist lifts,

burned off by warming sun

(c)2018

Note: photograph is of the mist covered hills of Queenstown Tasmania.

With thanks to Dr Peter Hay for his advice on certain issues I always seem to have when writing.