Walking with Gyula Friewald
Village walk in Spain
I climb up from the valleys
follow the path of donkeys.
My presence pursues the moments
as it croaks like a floundering bullfrog
in the mind’s stronghold.
The floating minute whistles casually,
weaves wreaths from wild flowers
and gently strokes my neck.
Vast, bright air flooding from the above,
the scented breeze ignores me.
I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces
of these elegantly resting female mountains.
Herds and swarms of cultures gathered
in these cupped hands like valleys and
disappeared in the drain hole of time.
Nobody wants to wake up from
the oozing garlic ornate dream.
They just repeat what is safe,
as the old told how to survive,
indeed, good for their godly goats.
Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.
Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013