a sort of Trinity

Backpacking, at the age of twenty five.
So young, strong, happy, sober.
Secure in myself, and, indeed, it is only me today.

In new territory, I am making for the sound of falls.
The ominous clouds of the morning are in tatters now,
bright rays are spilling through.

I push, push, through dense undergrowth,
slip on a damp rock, skin my shin and knee.
Hah! Small payment for what I am about to find.

When, all at once, the sun’s sparkle dazzles me.
I look left, and it showers a turquoise brook with its light,
dappling mossy tree trunks.

I am out into the sound and the beauty.

A trinity, I think, of the holy.

The scene physical before me
My sacred spirit that beholds and interprets
And the divine artist of both.

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