Nov 302015

by Anne Whitehouse


In a bowl between mountains

the pond mirrored the sky:

reflections of clouds

and the blue dome of space


on the wrinkled fabric

of the water’s surface,

where the wind raised whitecaps,

and the sun sparkled like sequins.


Down a road nearly 200 years old

meandering through a forest,

I saw a moose munching apples

in an abandoned orchard.


Witness to secret silences,

a pilgrim to forgotten places,

I listened carefully to what

was not heard elsewhere.