Tuesday, 9 August 2016

One Afternoon Around Lake Wascana

I'm on the trail (one of them) of Don Quixote, for whom every skew of reality comes through language. Coded language hundreds of years old. 

I name my bike, my bag and gear. I select my own names from whatever the breeze provides. This would be no ordinary bench,

no obvious view.

Here flowers abound.

Like the Don, I speak as if authored in some story.

Like him, I take enchantment from distant isle.

 Of course the path narrows . . .

a warning.

When I spot the white stallions emerging from the sea, I take off.

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