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When I close my eyes,
even to blink,
I see a mountain.
A tall, fierce,
serene mountain.
It has snow atop it,
and there is a sunset, a pinky-peachy one,
reflecting from its facets,
mirrored in the still water in front.
My feet rest by the lake.
I am alone.
There’s a gentle breeze; a caress.
The air is temperate, despite the snow before me.
I am sat on a mixture of frozen soil, stone and twigs.
My palms can feel the grit beneath them,
and so I bury my fingers.
Maybe there’s a bonfire next to me,
but I’m not certain.
Earth permeates my fingernails.
I bury them deeper.
I watch soft ripples in the lake
smoothly
ebb their way outwards to the brim,
towards me,
as if they are acknowledging my presence.
I feel restful in this place.
Sat within its untouched quietude and its sacredness.
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MAELSTROM 