We have walked here before,
where the ground is uneven,
where the path is not a path,
but for the determination of feet.
And the mechanics of motion
rise to consciousness
so that one heel is placed first
to grip the momentum,
the side of a foot reaches the earth next,
to relaunch again from toes,
leg to leg, stride to stride,
we go on.
A field rests in brown folds,
churned and in gestation,
we venture further than in the past,
where the wind's words are wilder,
where birdsong shifts our own tongues
to an inner silence.
The sun basks on the closed buds
of our faces, unfurls them,
it shatters glisks of light
upon the skin of the river
that ripples a new glassiness
to haze our jaded eyes.
The trees rattle still vacant branches,
they are open-armed -
we have belonged in these moments
though again now, the question emerges,
and nudges for some internal direction
because when we walk away,
we can't help but wonder what it is
that we're heading towards.
Image my own, from a walk. Word 'glisk' stolen from a man on twitter. I am unabashed. I liked the word.