A Country Tour

I spent a few hours one fine day driving around the outskirts of my old town, which consists of numerous other small towns, farms (including vast Christmas tree farms), mountains, creeks, and rivers. As the cool breezes and sunshine blasted through the windows and my puppy sat contentedly in the back, we did a circle tour of the area.

Wow! It is absolutely gorgeous here! I think I hit just about every back road in my AWD wagon and managed some bumpy terrain for fun. One amazing vista after the next!

Here are a few pics for your enjoyment, followed by the relevant C S Lewis poem, “On Being Human.”

Mountain Farm Country, High Above the River

Christmas Tree Farm

Aha, so this is where blue corn comes from!

On Being Human by C S Lewis

Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence 
Behold the Forms of nature.
They discern 
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities 
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying, 
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal 
Huge Principles appear.

The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of 
Arboreal life, how from earth’s salty lap 
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness 
Enacted by leaves’ fall and rising sap;

But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin, 
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us 
An angel has no skin.

They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it 
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing 
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory 
That from each smell in widening circles goes, 
The pleasure and the pang –can angels measure it? 
An angel has no nose.

The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes 
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not 
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot 
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate 
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf’s billowy curves, 
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
An angel has no nerves.

Far richer they! I know the senses’ witchery 
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see; 
Imminent death to man that barb’d sublimity 
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior, 
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares 
With living men some secrets in a privacy 
Forever ours, not theirs.

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