Songlines in Summer

The river is a slow rambler, snaking as it does between field and forest. It's torpid brown closer to gun smoke and charcoal tonight, as twilight lays hands to the world, shaping this days end skillfully, a potter at her wheel.
A fisherman stands mid-stream, the flow easing it's way around him, as he casts his line out in the direction of the fading light. The moon, full tonight, has risen white and proud, in the heavy blue sky, leaning beyond him to a sombre darkness. Clouds line the edge of night, fleeing eastwards, leaving damp earth and a gloaming of cathedral decadence.
The sun, who has acted these past weeks with a vicious capriciousness, has at last soothed her temper. Instead, she casts bright hued under-lights on the scattering of clouds that remain, chasing their faster brethren east. Her heft is strong at first, lighting skies to the eastern horizon, but she dwindles quickly, rushing now to the west. The solstice is well past. The speed of her late summer flight can be felt. The year dwindles.
The cosmic pebble called home twirls and dances through the void of space, in a routine far older than man or mammal, to a tune none here can comprehend. Insignificance marks everything. We are as nothing, lives a mere blip without register as the orchestra weaves this song beyond thought. An oddly soothing notion.
There are songlines with voices and instrumentals that we cannot hear, but time is not lost if one tries to listen anyway.

The Rubicon - A Poem

Once crossed, there can be
No return.
Not for us. Not for any.
Feet fall on way worn stones,
Laid by fathers come before.

They may jeer, insults ripe
Grapes on elder tongues.
They may cheer, grinning teeth
Knives in the dark.
Villains and saviours, we cross.

The way is set.
There can be no return.
The Rubicon fades,
A ribbon of thought,
Behind.