Alone again, or - El Jable fields around Mozaga

out there in the fields to the distance
where the gipsy winds blow the moment even further afield - 
my uneven, rough footprints have begun to form a well worn path   
as tired, wayfarer feet have lightly trod then retrod again

only the passing whispers swiftly chase after the trade winds
and a near silence is found there, then carried like a sigh
caressing the gentle sway of the sweet grass' hush where
no walls nor boundaries bounce the echoes of the wind-song

as each exhalation of earthen breath soon vanishes upward
lifting into the crystalline solitude colours of blues, whites and gold
the wrinkling patience still held in my own aged-lined hands
is now frayed and tattered, but nestled in them hides a seed of hope 

that heals stronger than a clump of feathered wings to fly away
enraptured beneath all that this big sky holds

and I'm now mindful of no longer being alone again

lost in a lingering semi-silent storm, listening intently, straining to hear