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Eaton Canyon, February, 2008
by Kath Abela Wilson

I saw quiet

open up its mouth
I felt the sense of sage and thyme
water was so clear it seemed to rhyme

I crossed the stream

sure zig-zag steps on wet gray stones
and in the rush and sigh
saw yesterday go by

of tangled roots some

unravelled petrified
as woven braided hair
I recognized myself there

I wove long living strands in threes

yellow blooms so seemed to sing
wild bright golden mustard there abounds
I revelled weaving in the sound

I left them there

and I walk on in memory
and sing the sunlit mountain wear
her yellow flowers in my hair





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