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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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