Gerry Jacobson
Crossing Over
the moor from Shovel Down to Kestor Rock. Glancing through my parka hood, heather glistens in the rain. I scramble up a granite tor. I’m the king of the mountain, that’s all I want to be.
staring at its swirling surface swiftly flowing West Dart river what’s bubbling up inside?
Finding comfort in that circle of stones, comfort in this circle of people. At evening, we drop down off the moor into country lanes, and a wild salad girl gathers leaves in the hedgerows.
those who prepare to travel onwards stand still in some grey dawn eating porridge in the rain
About the Author
Gerry Jacobson lives in Canberra, Australia, and can be found writing tanka in its cafes. He was a geologist in a past life and now celebrates reincarnation as a dancer.