Backpacking in Nepal, June 1971

Resting in a hill station guest-house,

over the worst of dysentery

the bazaar dealer's tab,

“Yellow Sunshine. San Francisco. Good shit."

is starting to hit

and I'm smoking a chillum of charas.

 

Through the fog of writhing smoke

and dancing rainbow mountain mists,

I watch a woman,

a Mahavidya maybe,

pad the jasmine track

to a distant wayside shrine.

 

Pennants and wind chimes

line the pathway.

Incense drapes the trees.

 

She sings a hymn;

echoing against granite crags

it returns to me in the songs of birds

 entrancing me even

as it mystifies.

 

'her gods are not known to me

all gods are unknown to me'

 

She made the journey yesterday,

shoeless,

and the day before.

 

I feel the tread of

foot... foot... foot

bruising the grass.

 

And with the pulse

of every step

the sighing of rooted blades

that would walk beside her

if they could.

 

I am rooted too.

 

 

 

🌷 (3)

For Cliodhna ►

Comments

AlbertTatlock

Fri 4th May 2018 06:54

Hmm. Cheers Raymondo, Duly noted. Still evolving 😃
ps the 4th Stanza has been shunted down the order :)
Thanks for the advice.

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