There, long ago, when we had space, and the air was pure, there we lived: us, the whole tribe, the children, the very old, the wise and the fools. At night we were safe, the sea protected us. We had many friends, and few enemies. We were poor, and strong.
The cave was our home, where we lived, loved, and died. The world wasn’t ours, but we knew our place, and this place was here, on the threshold. Far beyond was eternity.
bed, flare, waves, gain, seek
We sought freedom in Space, a new frontier,
but gained nothing:
and, now, as novae flare up in the void,
we are shipwrecked,
on a bed of broken worlds,
forever drifting on the waves of Time.
Picture: Hold Up, Did We Just Crack Time Travel?, at https://lifeboat.com/blog/2016/02/hold-up-did-we-just-crack-time-travel
Low tide: it is as if the world, the ocean, had wanted to withdraw, to retire, at the other end, on the other side, perhaps to another galaxy.
The written words cannot be erased, nor the broken promises forgotten.
The heroes have gone, their shadows melted…
faraway, in an unknown land,
only remains the sound of small waves, lashing the rocks.
What to ask of the waning Moon?
Where to watch the drifting Sands?
Passing Soul,
I will pursue You
to the ending Time…
Image: Michael Najjar, Sands of Mars, source: wired.com
We lie on the meadow, a mid-summer dream,
High above the woods, a large bird soars to the deep blue sky:
we have seen the mark, the proof that she was there,
among us, our dearest ghost…
Photo: Medway valley, ©2014 Honoré Dupuis
It started with a gentle rain, as above the valley dark clouds shrouded the high mountain peak. Soon, there would be a downpour, when the narrow path would yield to the torrent of scree and icy water from the cliff.
Then, he might have a last chance to shoot, before nightfall, before this small world sunk into darkness. That was if he could find his prey.
Photo: Dolomiten, ©2013 Honoré Dupuis
So far away… Yet this is now home, the shelter where we can repair, rebuild our strength.
Here they won’t find us, such a small planet, and a pale star, insignificant: on the edge of the known world, and the sea…
The blue ocean will hide us, we will build a village on these shores, our children will learn here, they will learn about Earth, and the Republic.
Then, one day, perhaps in generations, they will take again to the stars, and leave this world.
But, for now, the blue planet is our home.
Inspired by Sue Vincent’s last photo prompt of 2017, and a viewing of The Last Jedi.
He remembered: in his youth, this landscape would have been covered with snow, frozen, for several weeks, even, on a colder year, for months. Now, the thaw had come before Christmas. They’d had two snow storms, and, perhaps, it would be all for the winter…
But he knew. Despite all the speeches, the pledges, the politicians’ grand gestures, nothing really had changed. Nature, the Earth, would wait. It had happened before, long ago, before the great flood. It would happen again.
The old man resumed his walk. The late December sun rays were warm on his skin.
It was so easy: he just had to follow the narrow corridor, and, as the dwarf had said, it was there, the portal of ancient stones, and beyond, the warm glow of the vast chimney.
He stopped and looked down at the medieval floor, polished over millennia by the feet of so many pilgrims. Behind him he would be leaving his own time, the overflowing world, the menacing floods. In front of him, he knew was the vast kitchen, the monks in black robes, the penitents. He too would be on his way to the holy city, and they would recognise him for who he was, another brave and tired worshipper from the west, from the cold.
He would sit in front of the burning fire. He would pray. He would have their blessing. He would be invited at the big table, and, after grace, would enjoy the communal hot soup. He would later fall asleep, under a warm blanket, and before dawn, after mass in the small chapel, bare feet, would resume his journey, with thousands of others.
Below the surface of calm water the next storm is brewing. What it will be, how violent and destructive, no-one knows, nor how far it will reach, nor when it will be unleashed. So we, mere mortals, the next victims, continue to tread, blind and deaf, accepting our fate, carrying our sins, pretending all is well. Has it ever been different, have our ancestors, once, had the knowledge of the future, of what simmers under their lives, hidden from view? Was Nature, once, kinder to us? Did our Creator, once, attempt to warn us? Have we forgotten everything?
Image: Gaia, the Big Mother
