Stars poke holes through the blanket of the sky, letting hints of light through high above this lonely world. Promising distances too far to imagine as they arc across the beyond. Every so often one jumps from its place and streaks to oblivion, smearing it’s mark against the dark. We sit mesmerised by the patterns and pictures telling stories of gods and heroes, beasts and queens. Tales we learned as children sitting then in the comfort of home. The only constant is the gentle song of the sheep as they settle into the night. Actually, the skies, though shifting and dancing are the same skies that we stared at as children. This is our land, these are our hills, these are our stars.
Rulers and Governments come and go, leaders and armies pass into the night, but the stars are always there and probably always have been. So we stare and we remember, we wonder about those who will sit in the same place gazing at the same constellations when we are long gone. We have sat here so many times, for so many seasons, that there is no mystery for us in this place. We have given our own names to every hill and gorge, every rock and star. They’re probably not the right names but they are our names, we know them. They punctuate our stories and our memories. They map our days and nights and have done since we were but children. We look, we don’t need to study, we talk about nothing and we wait for the sun amongst old friends of the land and sky.
And then the lights grew and began to sing… and we heard.
PICTURA POESIS 