At the foot of the cliffs, a fire
the red ice tumbling flamed
a monastery made of dream
the small scuttling hermits
dig themselves in
like we do
finding a sense of place, in the lulls
~
all is gold, in golden light
lucky are those who need little
keep walking is what I say to my feet
there will be this bend, then that
one navigates by stars singing courses
~
It’s these little fires, petite
little inches where you gain ground
at the base of the soaring shelves
someone had a fire last night, the logs
smoke scattered in their char
someone marked a stone
someone else lost a shoe
~
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 
