Morning breaks over the ancient gorge,
where earth has torn itself open in quiet confession. Purple shoulders of stone rise bruised and radiant,
cradling a river that remembers only silver and green—
a thin bright vein threading the world's deep wound. Impasto clouds bleed peach into turquoise dawn,
while the far plateau dreams in unbroken gold.
Here time folds thickly, layer on layer,
each stroke a slow exhalation of epochs. No sermon needed—just this:
The canyon holds its arms wide,
and the light pours in anyway.
Port Macquarie NSW