Tuesday, 29 July 2008
Wales. 10 - Afon Glaslyn
I drag my finger across the creased map searching for your source. Somewhere hidden, cupped in a high hand of mountains, you are springing from rocks, beginning your wild run. Waterfall, lake, river, gorge, estuary. In an echoing cavern deep in my head, I can hear your lulling white noise.
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When I picture you tracing the lines of the river on the map I saw someone palm reading. Perhaps rivers and roads are the lands equivalent of love lines and life lines?
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