(From Fiordland & Otago Peninsula.
New Zealand. May 2010)
With white howls of winter witches
Dressing in silver night’s fiords,
Laughing high pitch of crystal slivers,
Gurgling long rivers,
Licking Lake sobs,
It floods inside of me.
With an early morning snow
Up on the Alps Peaks,
Just at the top,
Narrows the wet paths,
Alienates my lofty flakes
Frightened by the altitude
Of an enchanting climb;
With the vertigo of its cliffs
Winding up my waving flings,
It overwhelms my sighs.
With green trunks and turquoise streams,
All splendour over the Rainbow Reach,
Among hanging lichens curtains,
On a waterfall moss mattress,
With a bushy bog as pillow
And a spider web sheet fellow,
It warms me up into its fresh breathe.
With its Robins’ and Fantails’ flirting,
With sand flies and honey bees
Buzzing my reason rejections,
It comes deeply into my inlets,
Invents private ecosystems
Where we feed each other needs,
From where we fall into our abyss
And let ourselves flow and feel.
Once I came looking for it
But it was he who found me, indeed.
Ruth Sancho Huerga