Base camp in the Stirlings, such a fun time.
I sense no grief in leaving the city,
my stress melts as country arrives,
as bitumen gives way to gravel,
as houses surrender to trees,
even the rain is welcome out here.
We make do,
we don’t do,
we do what we want to do,
carefree for days.
Only the sound of the fire intrudes
as we toast the moon,
and utensils give way to reverie
then thoughts of the morrow.
And as we must, one day soon,
take our leave of ancient friends,
I sense a deep sorrow in my going.
©Paul Vincent Cannon