A boy sat on a grassy bluff outside a village.
Long ago. Far away.
He sat. Staring down a winding trail.
That boy would watch the trail in misty morning dew.
Often he would and for years it was a rituai.
The women of the village
Walked that trail down to the river. Down to the rocks.
With baskets perched atop their heads and arms hung by
Their sides.
Down the trail to river rock. And churning emerald
Pool.the river was the cleanser and the rock a pounding tool.
A long procession of balance and grace. a practice old as time.
Then back the trip of swaying hips and poise. In young or old.
The rock. The grace. The. Quiet noise. A pageant.
That boy was me
That river rock still calls the women
Slow procession. Natural and endless charm.
The rock. The trail the emerald tide.
The womens hips. The undulate .
The basket never falls.
The river calls.
This was me until the age of ten. In Belize in the district of El Cayo
A place still very much untouched. Read THE MANGO TREE. My Belizean memories.