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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 3791 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention The Far Country Marty Abuloc To where do I turn now, since we have talked so much about that place, the pine trees by the highway, the fog, the rain? Do I turn now to the moving wind above the silent lake, to the curtain being lifted, or the tapping of rain over leaves? and in turning to them, should I at last be forever still, forever blessed with the peace of something gone, that will never come back? At night, the sound is louder under the trees even though the stars are quiet, and at dawn the sun's rays shatter the clouds to a confused flight. Summers, falls, winters, Springs all rush in the same tempo as the clock in the dusty parlour, nothing as inescapable can bind or intertwine, as that which is gone, and time and its innefectual fingers drop minute by minute, and drown into the bottomless clarity of remembered coffee cups and quiet walks along your gravel roads. |
