Do travellers need to know
that the land we tread
has meaning in this world?
I look for the landscapes
where it seems as if nothing
has ever happened in human time,
where time slows into aeons
and where geology beats history.
Here people cannot grasp
what surrounds them.
Underfoot is a quilt of mossy lichen,
crackling from dry air’s suckling,
in front is the sea’s pewter patina,
behind are the gaze-deep mountains.
I understand only that there is no sense
to be made of such indifference:
awe and wonder shred religions’ pride.
Only the flow of water from high
to low connects, makes life current.
Here is a river to take me back
to the alien game of human meaning.