Mist Soaked Memory

These, the mountains I see

Are not near hills and peaks,

But the Eastern Mountains.

A mist sodden image I have

Dredged from distant layers,

Cellular memory, even.

When pain wracked

And digestion

Churning in tempest,

Nothing other exists

Yet the patience to be stronger –

A distant river penetrates the trees.

The cry of the curlew

Arching through the hills -

Chasing our steps up the valley.

Now the city a refuge

Somewhere to hole up,

Let flesh mend and mind settle.

Water in the glass untouched.

And you,

waiting

To come into this world,

Any day now they say –

Waiting

To take your very first breath.

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