Foothills in Grayscale

Foothills in grayscale

Ascending trails along a Babeling brook

(or rather a Tower that shares its name)

The mire smiles as the rain prepares its sticky hands

To grab the souls of those

Who tread soon overhead too carelessly

Some come as challengers, some come as courters,

But she sighs and turns as men with big sticks

Carve their borders into her bosom

Silver mist conceals her tangled hair,

She is both free and fixed, loved, unkissed

Serene and violent, unquiet, silent.

But the soft pitter-patter of pilgrims

Up her supple slopes awoke the sleeping sun

As sunrays grope their way through the swaying mountain ranges

Shades between black and white

Illuminate with morning’s light

Her paths; They are home for the heartless

Her ashen branches hide where my heart is

She intimates, embraced tightly

Muted colors, (pine needles green)

An epoch age’s ageless dream

The soft breeze blows, no finish line in sight

My 40 years climb wildered heights;

A Burning bush; Another night