I hear the
landscape whispering
Telling
tales of ancient footfall,
Of paths
like veins being woven
Into its
being, into its primordial fabric.
And the
landscape breathes in
The new
mapping because
It is part
of its myth.
It embraces
the new ways
Through its
bones
And holds
its secrets
Like eggs
in a nest.
Yet over
time
Many are
destined
To become
rumour
Distant
memory
To be seen
only
By moon and
star.
White
pebbles are lost in moss,
Pray flags
ragged and torn
In a haunting
wind.
The paths
of human toil
Become lost
to the landscape;
History is fragmented,
Devoured by
forgetfulness,
An ancient
mist obscures the way
And soon
old ways are destined
To become lost,
to become ghost roads.
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