Dreams of the past
It is easy in a dreamer's mind, a mind held by the wilderness, to dream of ancient times, but in reality it is only a dream for we have broken a promise and pulled our civilization away from the ancient code. Now all we hear are echoes .....These verses were written during a time spent at Little Mombo in the Okavango Delta. Most of the Photographs were taken from the walkway and deck of the lodge. They tell a small part of the story ...
Seasons
seasons
are mere moments
passing
into each other,
mere moments
in the passing of time,
and within the seasons
are moments
passing
unnoticed
From: A portrait of the seasons
Moments
unnoticed
in the happening
passing back to dust
unnoticed
but by a mere echo
in the shadow
of the passing
From: Mombo - The secret realm
Feather
on a drying pan
a word
a sentence
updating an ancient script
From: Mombo - The secret realm
Space and Ancient Trails
untouched in our distance
ancient trails
newly trodden by the past
echo a distant land
a yearning
in patterns
From: Space and ancient trails
Flight and Sunsets
envelopes the path of flight
and skies
red in the moments of evening
pass into time
and darkness
enveloping the path of all
From: Space and ancient trails
Morning
silhouetting the rising dawn
and trees, leafless and full
rose above into a lighting sky
visions of a time before time
There was no roar
or distant whoop
to echo past the silhouettes
the world beyond was still
until the sun burnt through
and brought the time back
From: The morning song
Sunset
highlighted
on fading orange
reflected
in dust
Paling
with darkness
into outlines
on a far, high horizon
From: Evening song
Greens
full and fat
in plenty
shadowed in light
lighted in shadow
dulling
with time
into colours of green
From: A portrait of the seasons
Patterns
of the seasons
of dry
in dust
and desolation
patterns of fullness
greens
and verdant plains
Patterns of the moments
within the seasons
the dawns
and the night chorus
the heat
and the lulling of the senses
Patterns of comfort
and insecurities
for it with the seasons
that our souls are held
From: Patterns
Death of a butterfly
to itself forever
nor death
the abstract patterns,
patterns
splayed in mud,
not in cruelty,
but in colours
and shadows,
mere moments
washed in a storm
into the season
From: Patterns
Reflections
A visual feast
An audible orgy
In the sky
And reflected
In the light
And shadows
Reflections
Of time
Of seasons
Sky
And silhouetted islands
Reflections
Of a yearning
For an ancient paradise
Reflections of ourselves
From: ReflectionsCopyright @ Leigh Kemp 2004
