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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & Owner
Ray Rasmussen, General Editor

Volume 13, Number 2, June 2019
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Gerry Jacobson
Canberra, ACT, Australia


A Rolling Stone

Through mist and rain we come striding over the moor, drop down into the valley through pine plantations. Wet and cold, we enter the clearing. A fire burns brightly, and the black kettle is boiling. I pitch my tent on a patch of moss beside the turbulent Dart stream.

all night
a wild river roars
in my ear
rain drums the tent roof
drips off the tree

Next morning we pack down in the rain, carry our gear across a slippery clapper bridge, walk on across England.

why must I leave
the green wooded valley
this world
of moorland rain
and rushing streams

Is it seven years since? I come back into the forest clearing. Limping now. On sticks. It’s still raining. I pitch my tent on the same spot. Has the moss grown on that beech tree? Is seven years a cycle of life? Of love and longing? Of love and loss?

walking off
the edge of the map
I have
to turn over
and north becomes south

The rain stops late in the afternoon. I walk up the valley to the ancient stunted oaks. Wind whispers in the wildwood. Of ghosts and myths. Of 120 species of lichen. I climb up to the high moor, wobbling through the clitter. Heather and gorse are in flower, glistening with raindrops.

the wind drops
high country is still
around me
the stones stand still . . .
only my mind wanders

astride
the rocky ridge
of Belstone Tor
I linger into
an elated evening

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end

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