Wicked Rural Homestead
Live Simply
Fort McClary
Kittery, Maine.
We wandered, caressing the ruins.
Touching stone hewn before our grandparents were born.
Feeling the marks left by long dead hands and looking to the eternal sea.
The silence broken only by the conversation between the ravens and waves.
While we witnessed time devouring history.
and descend;
into a passage that took us back,
to the light at the end of the tunnel,
we turn again so that we can ascend into the day.
What a strange reminder of how we have come to be as we are.
It seemed an apt way to spend such a gray day.
