There is something about the scent of the earth,
the trees, the leafy things,
reaching through the unspoiled mountain air
and the song of that small river
free running in the distance.
There is a gentle mist falling,
settling into my bones,
and these stones.
The place is at once alive, yet centuries old –
not at all dead and buried
with the quiet, ancient, humble
heart of a grandfather.
my young son
stands beside me.
I take his hand.