November 06, 2005

Wildfire

Wildfire on the weeping heath,
I walk over the weary land,
Where the wind catches at my face,
And flames dance before my eyes

Wildfire on the weeping heath,
I walk over the weary land,
As the ground begins to rise
And I think of you

We climb to the top of the hill, the wind chases my hair: the world before me seems in artificial motion. The night is cold, sharp, bitter, a seer of the future. But for now I am in love. The night is cold but clear, the stars pierce in and out of loverís clouds: they hide nothing, only delay the wonders of the unknown beyond. The path winds upwards, around boulders covered in age-old moss, melted into the bracken. Beneath us small knarled trees contort as the spirits within lift their heads, breathing in the chill air, welcoming in the winter. Darkness lies at their feet and for me there is nothing but the moment each footstep takes me to. We pass over scorched earth, through the crags and hidden shadows. I delight in their coolness, breathe in their earthy scent, breathe in memories past even as with each step we make new ones. The slope evens out and through the darkness the standing stone emerges, a blacker shadow silhouetted against the winter night. A gust of wind rattles the branches below, their sound seeming far, far away, in another world to ours. We huddle together in a blanket and gaze down upon the small, twinkling lights of dreaming modernity. Your home lies somewhere amidst that dreamÖmine lies here. Iíve never belonged anywhere for long. My emotions found a home with you, but homes can be torn down and now they roam free upon eternal oceans glittering in the dark, upon seas where ships of passion find no rest upon the Islands of Mistrust. But for now I am in love. And my home is with you. I glance sideways at you. Your eyes are like burning firestones, breathed out of the Earth a million years ago to dazzle the sky like diamonds. We walk to the other side of the hill and begin winding our way down, down past the scorched earth, the boulders, and back into the wreath of trees. We run through these, further into their depths, ducking under branches and weaving through their density. You stop, laughing as you gasp for breath, at the base of an oak. The tree whispers to me as we disturb its sleep: murmurs of earthen tones carried upon the throbbing air. You lean your weight against one of the branches and it groans as you laugh. I should have listened then, but instead I put my arms around you and kiss you, and we stand like that in the middle of the woods, on one of the darkest nights of winter: strangers in a foreign land, out of time, out of place, and soon to be out of love.

Wildfire on the weeping heath,
I walk over the weary land,
As days grow old and memories past
Fade amongst the dust.


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