A spiritual place.
Set amongst ancient mountains
All clothed with timelessly old trees.
Streams and waterfalls gurgling
Down to meandering rivers.
Countless ancestors buried
Or ashes scattered here.
Battered old castles
Haunted mansions
Even the odd old parsonage
Perched upon a bleak northern hill.
You can’t put your finger on it,
But there is something in the air:
More than the howling wind;
Still present even when the thunder
And lightning
Stops.
Ghosts of the past are amongst us
As surely as the aromas of flowers
And cut grass.
The ancient souls are still with us,
No doubt wondering
What the hell we are doing.
For here are civilisations that
Have basked in glory
For many generations
Only to fall and crumble.
Abandoned, lost cities,
Cultures and even languages
That have blossomed and thrived
Only to fade away.
Perhaps the same fate awaits us too.
All things must end.
For even the very universe
Will fade away
Into a misty sea of protons
Leaving no memory of anything
Or anyone.
All that will remain
Is this spiritual backdrop
Countless souls
Refusing to go away
Even in the blackest night.
Dry ice still creeping
Through the gloom,
Never surrendering.
Paul Butters
© PB 25\6\2021.
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