On Sun, Dec 30, 2012 at 8:57 PM, Martin
Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com>
wrote:
By
The Dark Pool.
The swaying, gear-grinding, bumpy coach slows down, and curves into the kerb. With a hiss of the mechanism's mundane release, sounding like a sigh. Like my relief in stepping down, feet on the ground.
Or at least, free to walk, rubber-soled on concrete semi-deserted pavements of this familiar main street.
A small coastal tourist town in winter quiet.
The coach goes on ahead, beyond the field of vision, and out along the peninsula.
Pausing over contemplative coffee, outside on a pub bench on the edge of town.
A few cars brake, to break the crossroad quiet and turn, below the rugged pine-clad hill. Gleann Garbh, and the 'rough glen' beyond.
Free to walk away from cars, and, turning off by the gate-lodge, the inner dialogue, minimal as it is, easefully dissipating in open freshness of the walk. Along a lane of tall timeless oak. Bark, branches, and twig tracery, but for being moss clad, bare to the air.
By the small stone-arched bridge, where the road bends. Rushing of racy white water over rounded-rock shallows, under twin arches, gurgles in swirled troughs and pools.
Stepping off the stony compressed crust of road, fresh into matted grass and beech leaves where, the bare and puddled path starts.
A way into the wild wood, where, water washes out where you wandered in. So, entering in, to shed the skin, the matrix weaves for the unwary. The leaf-crunch sodden, though barely trodden, oozes microcosms underfoot.
Further along beech burnished banks, the rock-strewn, stream-roiled gully flowing below, there is a listening in the limbs of dark branches wrapped with moss, that thrives in moist magnetism of ionic air.
There, where the earth breathes deep, seeming asleep. There dwells some silent spell of web-work there.
Microcosm and macrocosm blend in seamless unity, leaving no in-between for transient tourists to traverse. Being where the thread unravels, losing the weft and woof of the weave, we've all been there.
To walk as creatures one with Earth, and dream we walk on tourist trails.
This water rushing down, washes straight off the mountain. Its' bare crusted mineral face exposed above, to waves of precipitating vapours. Ripples across lichen, seeps into craggy fern-filled crevices of tufted grass.
Where once, thunderous erratic boulders rolled, to crush sap and settle forever in dense thickets of silted sediment.
Generations stumble up, leaving thin winding trails of trodden earth. Meandering around in a creaturely course of least resistance. Drawn by voices of water and healing ions of the air. Footfalls navigating, mindful of rocks and roots outcropping near to sheer drops.
To the dark pool. A deepening bowl or hollow, rock-scoured and brim-filled by successive centuries of cycles and seasons.
Banks bearing brown bracken down to the brink of sinewed soil and crag rock wall. Submerging into a volume of dark-shaded water. Cradled over by bold black-fingered branches of elemental trees, sturdy as stone.
An innocent 'tourist trail' leads into this self-contained situation, where it would be wise to simply sit, on the solid plank of the bench or boulder. To simply sit, allowing the effortless shedding of skins with no presumption to plunge.
From the north wall a vertical fall of white water. Reflected in the barely wrinkling leaf-stained surface of a slow dark mirror pool. This universal constant mystic sound of a feed of falling water fulfilling, music of many ancient voices.
Elemental, compounded of a dense bank, fortified by the iron grasp of primal roots. Graced with the confetti of rust-brown beech leaves scattered where they remain.
Surrealistic, archaic as blackened boulders plucked smooth and glistening, from the submerged cold of brackish water.
Being an oasis where stagnation is unlikely to occur, forever fed from far above and perpetually renewed afresh.Often a raging torrent of foam falls down, unloading white noise into the crucible, continuous with the rain.
Yet this constant single perpetual signature sound, the reassuring multiple stream of lilting language, whether obscure when barely a trickle, of water falling into itself.
It's been a while since i was there. I think it's safe to say there will soon be signs of spring.
Never mind the dying throes of the drama of the finite-focussed world. Something, somewhere is waking. Spring, springs eternal. Perhaps it is a global or galactic spring. A Universal Spring.
There is good reason to affirm that being so. Innocence is not without its' own wisdom.
The 'ordinary' is more extraordinary than we ordinarily assume.
I'm certain to make further pilgrimage, and simply sit, silent and listening, long and deep, by the dark pool.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
martin rainbowmaker.
Dec. 2012
The swaying, gear-grinding, bumpy coach slows down, and curves into the kerb. With a hiss of the mechanism's mundane release, sounding like a sigh. Like my relief in stepping down, feet on the ground.
Or at least, free to walk, rubber-soled on concrete semi-deserted pavements of this familiar main street.
A small coastal tourist town in winter quiet.
The coach goes on ahead, beyond the field of vision, and out along the peninsula.
Pausing over contemplative coffee, outside on a pub bench on the edge of town.
A few cars brake, to break the crossroad quiet and turn, below the rugged pine-clad hill. Gleann Garbh, and the 'rough glen' beyond.
Free to walk away from cars, and, turning off by the gate-lodge, the inner dialogue, minimal as it is, easefully dissipating in open freshness of the walk. Along a lane of tall timeless oak. Bark, branches, and twig tracery, but for being moss clad, bare to the air.
By the small stone-arched bridge, where the road bends. Rushing of racy white water over rounded-rock shallows, under twin arches, gurgles in swirled troughs and pools.
Stepping off the stony compressed crust of road, fresh into matted grass and beech leaves where, the bare and puddled path starts.
A way into the wild wood, where, water washes out where you wandered in. So, entering in, to shed the skin, the matrix weaves for the unwary. The leaf-crunch sodden, though barely trodden, oozes microcosms underfoot.
Further along beech burnished banks, the rock-strewn, stream-roiled gully flowing below, there is a listening in the limbs of dark branches wrapped with moss, that thrives in moist magnetism of ionic air.
There, where the earth breathes deep, seeming asleep. There dwells some silent spell of web-work there.
Microcosm and macrocosm blend in seamless unity, leaving no in-between for transient tourists to traverse. Being where the thread unravels, losing the weft and woof of the weave, we've all been there.
To walk as creatures one with Earth, and dream we walk on tourist trails.
This water rushing down, washes straight off the mountain. Its' bare crusted mineral face exposed above, to waves of precipitating vapours. Ripples across lichen, seeps into craggy fern-filled crevices of tufted grass.
Where once, thunderous erratic boulders rolled, to crush sap and settle forever in dense thickets of silted sediment.
Generations stumble up, leaving thin winding trails of trodden earth. Meandering around in a creaturely course of least resistance. Drawn by voices of water and healing ions of the air. Footfalls navigating, mindful of rocks and roots outcropping near to sheer drops.
To the dark pool. A deepening bowl or hollow, rock-scoured and brim-filled by successive centuries of cycles and seasons.
Banks bearing brown bracken down to the brink of sinewed soil and crag rock wall. Submerging into a volume of dark-shaded water. Cradled over by bold black-fingered branches of elemental trees, sturdy as stone.
An innocent 'tourist trail' leads into this self-contained situation, where it would be wise to simply sit, on the solid plank of the bench or boulder. To simply sit, allowing the effortless shedding of skins with no presumption to plunge.
From the north wall a vertical fall of white water. Reflected in the barely wrinkling leaf-stained surface of a slow dark mirror pool. This universal constant mystic sound of a feed of falling water fulfilling, music of many ancient voices.
Elemental, compounded of a dense bank, fortified by the iron grasp of primal roots. Graced with the confetti of rust-brown beech leaves scattered where they remain.
Surrealistic, archaic as blackened boulders plucked smooth and glistening, from the submerged cold of brackish water.
Being an oasis where stagnation is unlikely to occur, forever fed from far above and perpetually renewed afresh.Often a raging torrent of foam falls down, unloading white noise into the crucible, continuous with the rain.
Yet this constant single perpetual signature sound, the reassuring multiple stream of lilting language, whether obscure when barely a trickle, of water falling into itself.
It's been a while since i was there. I think it's safe to say there will soon be signs of spring.
Never mind the dying throes of the drama of the finite-focussed world. Something, somewhere is waking. Spring, springs eternal. Perhaps it is a global or galactic spring. A Universal Spring.
There is good reason to affirm that being so. Innocence is not without its' own wisdom.
The 'ordinary' is more extraordinary than we ordinarily assume.
I'm certain to make further pilgrimage, and simply sit, silent and listening, long and deep, by the dark pool.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
martin rainbowmaker.
Dec. 2012
art : by the dark pool, martin law, December 2012
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