A Sanctuary
still, yet ever moving
The scent of fresh clothes.
Damp earth, tang of rain
through open windows.
Storms, cold over sapphire hilltops,
usher the fresh grass.
Golden light that floods
through ash tree leaves.
Wattle, yellow upon the ridges,
marks the passage of spring.
Where the cold burns
in windswept paddocks,
but welcoming upon return
to bright kitchen and
fire warmth, a sanctuary,
from the bleak world outside
where the grass turns silver and brown.
That sweet, earth smell of sweat,
and clover, and fluffy winter coat
against my dusty face.
The sky, a dome of lilac and fire,
as the woolshed's grey iron
presses into my back, the first stars show,
and the air clings gently cool
to my jeans and muddy jacket.
Where the world sits differently,
to anywhere else on earth.
It is still, yet ever moving.
Where there is a strange,
unconditional beauty in all
its cold, punishing aridity.
And hope in it's light,
inevitable return of warmth.
About the Creator
E.B. Mahoney
Aspiring author, artist, and sleep deprived student. Based in Australia, E.B. Mahoney enjoys climbing trees, playing a real-world version of a fictional sport, and writing in the scant spare time she has left.
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