Standing back from the window, clutching a coffee, looking out upon blue sky, the section of 101 caught within the frame, the green of the nearby hills, the tones of the distanced. The migraine appears to have left only the slightest trace of residue and that, possibly, imaginary but there's definitely been too much time to think these last few days and that through a darkened filter; a sense of distances intruding, hanging wraithlike upon clock and calendar, of boundaries and separation. 


Once again upon Xian Shan.


Beyond the summit the path continues
between pavilions where voices rise,
and fall, as my footsteps pass.
Through scented air around small shrines,
spring flowers and birdsong,
winding threads of speckled light
shaping stalk and leaf,
time rustling in bamboo groves.

Beyond moss covered rocks
water sounds intertwine distances;
a burn descending
through boulders and bracken,
small pools scattered,
ice cold,
beneath lingering snows
clinging to sheltered slopes.