Back from Europe, under big skies again. A walk to the look out through the thick morning mist, a sense of space reverberating. The closeness of the natural world in the country: the turning of the leaves, a pack of wild goats startled and running, the odd kangaroo watching intently from beside the path.
The mist flattens the landscape, turning it into a Japanese painting. The world seems more like poetry at this early hour. Ethereal and mysterious. One of my favourite poems – ‘Cold Mountain’ – a hai ku of Han Shan’s by way of Jack Kerouac comes to mind.
‘Climbing up Cold Mountain path, Cold Mountain path goes on and on, long gorge choked with scree and boulders, wide creek and mist-blurred grass, moss slippery though there’s been no rain, pine sings but there’s no wind, who can leap the world’s ties and sit with me among white clouds?’