Shattering the snow that falls, in temper and in presence
Landscape speaks a language of light, a withering song with essence,
Brown are the eyes, of the earth and rock, a clock that rhymes and shines
Glow from within, the fire and torch, in patterns that are checkered with signs,
The energy luminous, whether close or far, off the cliffs that loom over land,
Narrow the road and sound of the brook, lives a mysterious voice from the sand,
The sky cries a dialect, ancient and serene, the tale it tells is so true,
Within the silence of clammer, in a visual realm, on a trail walked by so few,
In the melody within the stone, the trees, a remnant, a sound,
Drums drown out bellows, in etchings once scribed, in a record of history not found,
The waves of the tide reach the shores of the mind, so difficult to even attain,
This place with no name, from the source all once came, what is gone still must remain,
Kirk Sutherland– 2021
