Ian McCallum

from Wild Gifts (2 Capstan Close, Marina Da Gama, Muizenberg 7945): 1999.

Have we forgotten

that wilderness is not a place,

but a pattern of soul

where every tree, every bird and beast

is a soul maker?

Have we forgotten

that wilderness is not a place

but a moving feast of stars,

footprints, scales and beginnings?

Since when

did we become afraid of the night

and that only the bright stars count?

or that our moon is not a moon

unless it is full?

By whose command were the animals

through groping fingers,

one for each hand,

reduced to the big and little five?

Have we forgotten

that every creature is within us

carried by tides of earthly blood

and that we named them.

Have we forgotten

that wilderness is not a place

but a season and we are in its

final hour?

About The Lost Pedestrian

In my wanderings throughout the moments/days/years, I try in earnest to find the mystical within the mundane and the mundane within the mystical, oftentimes confusing one from the other. I have wandered and roamed through many a city, many a town, in a state of wonder and bewilderment, without necessarily going anywhere. I am easily lost, but eventually found. (I am guessing you have just found me). My sincere hope is that you will find Something in this warehouse of thought, memory and false memory, words, numbers, tangents, murmurs, echoes (lots and lots of echoes), voices, dreams, and other paraphernalia.
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