To travel is not to stay, to live, to grow from a place.
We who wander have the luxury of forgetting that winter comes sharp, that the land is greedy, that is hardens hands and stoops back.
Even as I stand here I am outside, looking in.
And yet moments of beauty speak with an eloquence that defies the knowledge of after and before, of other. There are sights that need no analysis.
It is a childhood of sunny day dreams, the boat rocked blue deeps, a stolen kiss, a fallen sand castle touched by waves.
The sunshine might not last long but it seems baked deep, blooming in the soil and writing lines of laughter, like short poems spoken softly, on brown faces.
Tomorrow’s rise like the road, bright, hopeful but still hard. There is far to walk.