The fog horns and calling fishermen are muffled as you step into the depths of the thick forest.
Where you trek up rough hills,
And down steep slopes,
Across rickety, moss-covered bridges,
Over thick roots,
And through raspberry bushes that scratch your leg, but burst with flavour on your tongue.
Honey bees buzz past you,
The salty air replaced with sweet pine,
Branches catch your hair,
The leaves reach out to you,
Pulling you in with every step.
You’ll know you’ve arrived when the ground begins to grow under your feet,
The jutting rock walls and rough incline leading to the top of the ridge.
The rocky mountain sides open around you,
A smooth rock leads you to the water.
The cold, fresh air hits your face,
Blows through your clothes,
Enters your breath.
The frigid water runs from the mountain tops,
Down the waterfall,
And into the cove.
Crystal clear, yet ice-cold,
The cove calls your name,
Whispering through the rocky walls,
Beckoning you back time and time again.
– Sarah Tiller