L'aura del Campo

Musing: Sigulda and Molde

Sigulda

1.

Sun shines in Sigulda on the stooped shoulders of an old woman purse slung over her back, bag dangling. And on the tall youth, oblivious to age, banging on drums, shouting out the day. Silent geraniums turn deaf ears. Eight-hundred and nine years have passed under the same skies. The Age of Liv and the rage of Martin Luther have passed. White lilacs bloom and bike riders change their clothes. White roses open to blue above. I do not wonder where I wander. I absorb the breeze and jot down my thoughts and stop under an oak to look up at a green sign that tells me what street I'm on: ieta Paegles.

2.

How long will the tower hold those bells? Not long, not long, not long enough! The butterfly/worm squirms in its cocoon—wiggles a message to the squeamish and infirm: my time has come to leave you.

Molde: Up to Skihytta

3.

Blue flowers and a brown bench. The path up up up is no longer smooth and black (asphalt). Now the sound of crushing gravel follows upward. I'd say I'm lost... but could you define that. Birdsong and pine beckon. It's quiet 70 years after this hill town and port was destroyed in a cacophony of bombs and fire. I desire neither. A couple stops. They point the way: always up.

4.

Whether you zig this-way-or-that at the end you will rest, perchance to die. If you don't cherish this choice better to have never been born. The contract you signed with your first breath was for better or worse, until... It's more binding than any wedding vow.


5.

I am soothed by the passing of those whose walking is done. Whatever path I am on goes somewhere. I comntinue to climb between birch, fern and snags. Violets encroach on the gravel. A jogger runs past—no time to smell them.

6.

Two men and a dog; birch thins and I'm reminded of what I see in the mirror.

7.

A man pees in the woods and the dappled shade plays among the horsetails.

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