The first mountains I see lie naked in the Cretan sun. I am shocked, not by their audacity but by their weather-beaten skin. Like plump grandmothers with hard-working hands, these Goddesses call the Crone. You are one of us, croon the ragged rocks. Don’t be mistaken, your youth has flown. I acknowledge my silver threads but the grandmothers laugh. It is wisdom we speak of. Now go ahead and follow your path.
Photography © Jeni McMillan