I see no red slopes here, they metamorphose into achromatic
variations on your tranquil canvas, the Lhergy Ruy pass
thins into another dimension, where grisailles dye the fabric
of air in astral glaze . You have religiously sketched a bedrock,
whose meaning and essence defies the human mind; watered
by shadow rivers that meander across myth and legend, your
brush strokes, a prayer to the sky. My thoughts wander across
tantric realms as I try to read into your slate visions of infinitude.
From somewhere, the cairns rise, meditating in shades of grey,
reliquaries interring the bones of time in mandalas of earth,
water, fire, air and cosmic breath. They translate into Tibetan
stupas in my exiled consciousness that relentlessly roams
the earth in search of a dark eternity. In your ethereal tonality,
I seek some healing mantra that radiates enlightenment.
Lhergy Ruy – Translated as Red Slope from Manx Gaelic.