Tasting.

 

 

Tasting.

 

One golden long-ago afternoon
I rode past high fells then clad in rough bracken
under a sky of unbroken blue

and  cantered through canopies 

of russet trees thrown over the roadside while
autumnal moor-land rose in
beautiful solitude shadowing wind and cloud

and halting I heard liquid laughter.

 

Where would streamlet pebbles
be found white as those at my dismounted feet 
and could heathered summits
slumber through autumn more peacefully 

or lark-song appear so enchanting ?

I had heard it said that highland
air tasted of wine, flavoured with grass-scent
and drawing a lingering breath
as air filled lungs I knew that made sense  

as I gulped in ether-sharp drafts.

 

So divine was the reverential quiet

in my enlightened mind that I closed awed

eyes and in vibrations of silence

caught nature's presence as never before.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this takes me back to Wolf Lake Ranch in Michigan back in 1963---
and all the trail rides we took...stopping to cook lunch over a fire...then trotting or cantering back down the beautiful trails...one with nature and trying to be one with the horse...I never considered myself a good rider...but i had ridden with my dad a few times and he was an excellent horseman (English Saddle, riding with my mom in Central Park) and once he told me he thought I was a very good rider. That compliment has stuck with me for a long long time, even if he was just being nice.
This poem makes me want to hit the trails again.
j.

[Fay Slimm]

Lovely to hear your memories jacob and honoured to know my few lines brought good times back into your mind and heart again. Thank you so much for stopping by and giving such a refreshing review on Tasting. Take care and keep safe in these terribly testing days my friend.