To where does it lead, this walking? Past sea-lashed stacks and blocky towers of granite, shattered into cubes, to wind-bashed headlands drenched in spume and spray. Through lush-green tunnels of feathery tamarisk, humid as the tropics, wet-warm as rainforests, dripping with hart's tongue ferns and frothy with meadowsweet.
Read more of my Cornish-coast-path prose poem at Roselle Angwin's Qualia and Other Wildlife . . .
3 comments:
To the sea, eventually some sea, it seems our footpaths ultimately lead.
Yes, I think that's where we'll all ultimately end up, Amanda.
I missed that! I liked the way the ending stepped out of the moment, taking in a huge expanse of time. Interesting that it can have that effect, walking, given that walking is firmly rooted in time. But then, music is very time-rooted, too, and it can have a similar effect. One could riff on the rhythm of walking, 4' 33", etc., but as I'm only armed with a tablet-prodder, I won't!
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