Thursday, February 16, 2012

Old Summerour

What a magical trip to work it was, this midsummer morning. Dusk made the sky slightly pink and the mountains a pale blue. There was a light mist lying along the hollows and bottoms. Raindrops, still clinging to the tall grass and wildflowers, caught my high beams, and a little rabbit risked his skin, darting across the road. The old road is familiar to me ~ I've travelled it many and many a time. The curves of it are like an old familiar tune. I come to a stop at Old Summerour Road, where the pretty old cemetery quietly beckons ~ reminding me that we are mortal, in spite of the immortal beauty of the place. Next is the oasis, I call it, where an odd little island of trees looms lush and black against the morning sky. Then, one of my old familiar landmarks, a line of hanging gourds, home to martins and a gardening tradition dating back to the Moravians, or maybe even the Cherokee. I climb the hill, watching for deer, to a secret, lovely lake, still as a mirror, with the mist just discovering the morning sun. It creeps away as I step out of the car, keys jangling, my mind already turning to my morning cuppa...

from: Southern Muse Journal (my blog)
(Post of June 18, 2010)

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