It could have been evening under the canopy that covered this winding smooth road, but the trees twinkled golden above. The roots had carved stories on the walls of the road cut out just for us. Winding through deep dark forests, with an occasional magical glint of golden seas afar. The bends leaning us just that little bit over the edge before the world righted itself. Deep below, was the green sea, inviting us with eyes of seduction. However fast we rode, we knew she was watching us – just us. The road was safety, it would take us to her, but to keep her waiting, watching.. ours at the moment of sight, unknown else.
Then there was that road up the mountain.. narrowing as it wound its way up. Crumbling edges as the villages fell by the wayside. Golden earth with white layered rocks strewn about – a playground for saytrs and the Gods.. for humans there were none here. Our lonely car glinted along in the bright sunshine, just the nimble goats watching us as we climbed. The summit had no road, no room to turn even. Crumbling rocks had turned to dust in the harsh Mediterranean sun. Banking in woven roots, knowing that grass there was none..it had been left behind miles ago. Even the plants there did not reach out to each other, splendid at their isolation at the very top. We returned, having reveled in their glory to warmer pastures, glowing lights and afternoons in squares with sangria and song.
And another, when we chased the star, and wondered how the pole star could be so visible from the other end. It mattered not whether it was our true north – it was bright and it led the way. From crisscrossing highways across towns to the quieter roads of the country. Smooth, like a silk ribbon, black in the gloaming. An occasional car every half an hour, a little twinkling window lit far far away. The star to lead us on to the very ends of the earth. Where the soil had set, as it was millions of years ago, not knowing or caring that people would come.
Memories of roads travelled, a flash of colour, light and strangely no smell. Roads don’t get personal. And they keep their stories to themselves. Seeing them all pass by, maybe knowing that a few special moments were shared there. That little bridge off the road, where we stopped, the chance meeting where the mountain and the river carried on as usual. Just the little butterfly flitting between the sun and the shade.
My roads, all of them. Moments with them made them mine. Warm creamy moons that travelled alongside, moonlit rivers that glinted to the tune of whispered songs, ghostly fireflies that warned us of haunted castles at the end of the road, unending lanes with rhymes retold.