Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Carn Euny Fogou

Dark caves are wombs for lonely thoughts. What else could live there but lost children and love.

There is a well sprung from rock, life from darkness. Moss grows there, glows uncannily. The slit it flows from widens year by year, becomes a stream, a river, the sea.

Not a mother to life - breeched but barren.

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