By Angus MacSpon

To the north the mountains are sometimes blue.
In the evening they are painted purple with the light of the dying sun.
Before dawn they are grey with expectation.
Someday (when the spirits call me) I shall cross them.
But for now I must dwell in peace at their foot.
This life is not hard. My gardens are fruitful.

The wind is a lonely spirit. It talks to me; its voice is a whisper in my ears.
Sometimes it takes on human form and walks with me for a while.
We have little to say to one another. Our worlds are too different.

Dawn comes. The dew upon the grass is cool, thrilling. The breeze is a soft whisper, calling my name.
(I have given it my name, as a gift freely offered.)
There is a soft music, inaudible to the ears.
Dawn is coming.
When it comes everything will be different; the world will be changed.
The world will be made anew by the first touch of light.
For now the mystery is strong
(Strongest perhaps, in these grey moments before the sun's touch);
It hovers over the grasslands, it broods in the woods.
There are clouds in the sky, drifting slowly. A few last stars glimmer.
In the forest, where the shadows are yet dark, a figure stands among the trees;
And O, the horns on his brow!

But I must attend to my gardens.
Someday I shall cross the mountains, and discover, perhaps, the Land of Youth—
    (There is no sorrow there, nor sighing)
But for now, the air is still and sweet, and cool with the dew,
And dawn is coming.

© 1993 by Angus MacSpon • ContactWriting page