On top of it all, there’s a retreat,
a house built upon a home-calling,
there’s no knowing just when
or how it was fashioned
on the unclimbable mountain peak
in a valley of thumb estimated giants,
but it is there.
From the windows you can see
as far as the imagination can paint,
a sweeping brush stroke
to the east, delineates those fabled waterfalls
of Kunsoi, a staccato streak of pigment,
where the torrents echo in response
to the sea westwards, they mist into the
night and desire haiku connection.
To the north, are seen the vast deserts
of the expansive Hundri plains,
spinning blur of sandstorm on unsettled days,
a haze where dunes drift to forgotten
shores, but from here it remembers
when they were young,
and adjoining lines in the sand meant us.
Now a change of colour is washed
onto the south, the green expanse that will
forever be the forest of renewal, pine
scent to sooth any weariness, it balances
the scenes of yesterday’s felling.
And from the balcony, there’s a vista
and a table and chair just drawn, that waits
for whoever has the vision to reach it
in an old, Japanese scroll in our time.