Monday, 20 October 2008
Above the Pyrenees
From above, the pink-grey cloud burren blankets a world wrapped away, kept for later. Like a karst landscape, the shapes are stark as skull, with dark potholes where my feet would find their tread if I were running there. Plunge pools overflow, drip by drip, down into the lush green caves of valleys beneath and the welcoming wide hands of pink rock. The mountains funnel, forge, gorge a way through, to a new vista which we have named as another country. But there is no line to fence in the slow progress of moss, the shape-shifting of wind-bitten rock. Golden lichen is holding on and creeping.