BEACONS

Aidan Carrelo

Mushroom stools never looked so pure;

dirt caked hands wait for an offering,

like a child at their first communion.

Waiting to be blessed.

The alluring mountains are the gateway to heavens door,

the fire roars in the cottage.

Our infinite home.

I reach for the door and realise I am at the lake again.

(Its just a pile of rocks)

Rocks with sacred energy are cut by winding streams.

My brothers.

The fog is thicker than it seems.

Where is our next adventure?

Go to sleep,

The sound of the waterfall is all you'll hear.