December 24, 2003

• A Walk in the Fells
  

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  In a wood quite near the highway is the Fells.  I don't know why it's called that, some quaint New England thing I'm sure, but into the fells we went.

  
  

  

  
  

  The tongue of ice licked the roots of the trees.  Lingering frozen in its delight at the taste.

  
  

  

  
  

  The old Fells Bell Tower.  No longer ringing, the view the only sound it makes.

  
  

  

  
  

  We climbed the stairs and at the top looked at where we had been; Nautalus shaped iron and steel tread;  We swirled into a dream ...

  
  

  

  
  

  And fell into the hill there

  
  

  

  
  

  Gray and wet pieces of a dream.
  

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  • 11:02 am
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