Category Archives: CHASING

By crawling a child learns to stand. ~ African

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THE CHILDREN OF THE MIST 

(written in the Tasmanian bush.)

 

Through the valleys, softly creeping

‘Mid the tree-tops, tempest-tossed,

see the cloud-forms seeking, peeping

For the loved ones that are lost.

Not for storm or sunshine resting,

Will they slacken or desist,

Or grow weary in their questing

For the children of the mist.

 

Where are those children hiding?

Surely they will soon return,

In the gorge again abiding

‘Mid the myrtle and the fern.

Ah! the dusky forms departed

Nevermore will keep their tryst,

And the clouds, alone, sad-hearted,

mourn the Children of the Mist.

 

E’en the wild bush-creatures, scattered,

Ere they die renew their race,

And the pine, by levin shattered,

Leaves an heir to take his place.

Though each forest thing, forth stealing,

Year by year the clouds have kissed,

Vainly are those white arms feeling

For the children of the mist.

 

Dead the race, beyond awaking,

Ere its task was well begun;

Human hearts that throbbed to breaking

Are but dust beneath the sun.

Past all dreams of vengeance-wreaking,

Blown where’er the tempests list.

But the cloud-forms still are seeking

For the children of the mist.

 

John Sandes

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Maireann lá go ruaig ach maireann an grá go huaigh. A day lasts until it’s chased away but love lasts until the grave.

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Way-lah bprà-dĭo-dio phráw man mák-jà thòok lâi dtahm sà-mĕu.

Time for-short-time because it often has-been chased always.

Time is fleeting because it’s always being chased.

– See more at: http://bookofzen.com/#sthash.MK3XoWS4.dpuf

foto – snug cove in eden nsw 2013

What I was chasing in circles must have been the tail of the darkness inside me.

― Haruki Murakami, After the quake

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Lyrebirds

Over the west side of the mountain,
that’s lyrebird country.
I could go down there, they say, in the early morning,
and I’d see them, I’d hear them.
Ten years, and I have never gone.
I’ll never go.
I’ll never see the lyrebirds –
the few, the shy, the fabulous,
the dying poets.
I should see them, if I lay there in the dew:
first a single movement
like a waterdrop falling, then stillness,
then a brown head, brown eyes,
a splendid bird, bearing
like a crest the symbol of his art,
the high symmetrical shape of the perfect lyre.
I should hear that master practising his art.
No, I have never gone.
Some things ought to be left secret, alone;
some things – birds like walking fables –
ought to inhabit nowhere but the reverence of the
heart.

Judith Wright