Its the wind whispering secrets to dry leaves in tall trees.
The hush. That audible hush interrupted only by an empty breeze.
It’s an ice blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon.
A bone-deep cold broken by the Winter sun arising.
It’s the white-gold of plains like a turbulent honey ocean,
Yet the gnarled claws of blackened trees stand stiff without emotion.
The ground crackling underfoot, the rhythmic beat of gravel.
A farm road winds eternally like a ribbon come unraveled.
The tick-tick-tick of a bicycle wheel with the du-du-du of a bird.
A zebra laughs in the distant veld at a bawdy joke not heard.
Then all at once it’s nothing, not a sound and not a sight.
The silence of the deaf, the dark of the blind, the wilderness at night.
Somewhere in the midst of this, a speck in the expanse of universe,
The words of one soul to another, I love you, dear, for better and for worse.
The wind dies down, as does grass. The zebra returns to dust.
When all that remains are stars above, the only thing left is us.
17 June 2016
Written in a wilderness