We walk relaxed along the mountain way

At home with planted pines and falling cones,

Which grace the pleasant place of childhood play

With needles marshalled into battle zones

From which a Finnish family sadly fled

Their lowly forest life for Knysna's woods,

Cutting the trees that could have made a shed

But built instead to sail the ocean's routes.

Our feet tread gently on the forest floor

Composed of centuries of fallen leaves

Witness of walkers and the woodman's lore

To form the magic carpet memory weaves.

We walk into our pasts and soon succumb

To dreams of those whom we've yet to become.

Ringgenberg

13 July 2004

The day after we'd walked to Niederrid via the wanderweg, and back.