A Portrait of Dennis Knoll

There is a place

where the fern bends

and the heather swoons

beyond the scent of the view.

Thistles wolf-whistle

puckered foxgloves call to you.

Chalky path points

toward the twisted sky

jagged rocks tumble

through Red Kite's eye.

To the right,

the emerald valley

wound around wonky horizons

unfolds in fabrics of fresh bracken

broken by glass pools.

Siskins sing in tones of yellow

hazy trail slices through cold crag

Sharp brisk breath

curls like wire wool

ragged greys tower

launching steel at the still skies.

Dangling feet carried

on the exhale of the mound

The edge,

sculptured in gritstone boulders

slate-sensations coursing through.

Is it vast expansion of the vale?

Or,

Is it vast expansion of the mind?

To embark on this journey of ascension

is to stand in awe before

The Divine.