quench

we fetched water together
from the spring
on that other mountain,
wind flattened and
blooming almost familiar.
i carried it with me,
drove the 450km from her home
through places with soil
so rich in iron that ploughing
has bled red furrows across quiet hills.
past fields of wind turbines slow
on the flat lands. marching on endless
under a changing sky
until our mountains reached
out long arms towards us
and roads cut deep
through rock valleys
tight with cliffs
that were carved
by glaciers
in a story of this earth
older than words,
but younger than this water,
three bottles on my desk
catching light.

for three days i drink
this water from the spring
so that the memory of
the rocks and roots of that place,
her home, become clear streams
that pool and well within me
so that i re-member the mountain
remembering me.

 

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