MEMORIES OF MONS KLINT
The patter of rain causing the leaves to glisten
Low cloud kissing the wet forest floor
It
did not matter
The haunting sound of the distant fog-horn called
Something strange
Something outside of myself calling to something within
Stirring
deep emotions
I stood; alone; aware
Far below the high cliff top
The gentle lapping of the Baltic sweetly caressing the sandy shore
Slowly, surely, eroding the land beneath my feet
Eroding further, nature`s many years of toil
THE
SCULPTURE GARDEN - LOUISIANA, HOLBAEK, DENMARK
Blue sky; warm sun
Work of man, inspired by - WHAT? -
Nature - God - Inborn ability
Call it what you will
Each dedicated piece standing proudly
Unaware - or maybe aware - who knows? -
Of crashing waves of Oresund
White sails amidst `white horses` bobbing on blue-green, heaving mass
Never still
Wind from the sea reaching trees
Rustling leaves; whistling; whispering
Man`s work firm and rigid
Nature`s - moving, calling
But all speak in a language of their own
To those who care to listen
ST MARIE`S CHURCH - HELSINGOR - DENMARK
What peace within those walls of brick mellowed by the passing years
How many feet have trod the cloister stones?
Each footstep firmly planted
Imprinting
memories
As I walk through vaulted rooms
I feel the serenity of black-robed Carmelite monk and nun
Their chanting echoing through the cold, dark chambers
I picture them kneeling in prayer before the altar
Chaste, pure and holy
Supplicating
themselves before the Almighty
But lo! The rooms are all empty except for memories
No voice today echoing in painted music hall
No
figures gliding from cell to chapel
But then! I hear the past
The great organ swells forth its strain
Buxtehude lives again
THE
SEA
The sea - The sea
It calls to me
Crashing - Pounding - Heaving mass
Sometimes angry - Sometimes calm - almost serene
There is something about the ocean
Powerful - Forceful
It is all engulfing
I hear it calling
It speaks
