Copyright 2007 Jennie Gilling. All Rights Reserved
i. Stone
The scale takes us by surprise.
Vast lava flows -
jagged rasping tongues
of quarried slate,
halted by closure and desertion.
The workers' chapel
long since collapsed
in final genuflection.
These grey lichened keys
plink plonk their notes
as we step -
a music without it's choir.
ii. Earth
Brightness behind, sepia ahead,
roots become fingers
clasping peat.
I hang on to branch and trunk
as we weft
through the warp of trees.
Maps are not always guides
through such labyrinths.
I have lost
all sense of direction.
Will an ear to the ground
be a compass?
iii. Water
Mountain barrier
foams and glides -
polishes, making stepping stones
slipping stones.
The river's distillery brown,
permanently on tap
draining hillsides,
sieved through myrtle, heather.
The surface looks firm
until it glints.
A sponge can take weight
but it can also baptise.