Skyewalking

Where can the heart
go - here,
but be still?
Pulled; then
cushioned by
rhythm of river,
rhythm of rain.

Pulsing, meeting
the beating,
thrum and thrust
of the living
landscape, alive
and quietly singing
its cacophony of
muted sound.
Held in the hand
of time, oblivious
landscape offering
it's comfort,
as though it were
a familiar,loved
worn overcoat.

Where can the heart
go - here,
but be still?

Pulled; then
cushioned by
rhythm of river,
rhythm of rain.