The lanes wind and weave aimlessly,
Sun-traces chase through cloud,
Blue sky peers cautiously, while
The trees swell in their green,
Hedgerows burst with colour and smell.
This old, quiet, spit of land moves slow,
The days long and different; fleeting.
Such a small place, a micro-culture
With strange names, ancient sites.
Echoes and shadows of the past are larger here.
Secret coves and cliffs open up the
Vastness of blue; above and before.
The advance and retreat of ocean gives
A peaceful monotony, not dulling – more nourishing.
This rolling-green is home to a myriad of shades of life,
Melting and reforming, blasted by sun, bolstered by cloud.
The deep valleys and steep hills are harbours of humanity.
The hills were here longer, but we bite in,
Building new valleys, new heights, and new depths –
Less tangible, more substantial.
Less real, but so much more.
This land is transcendent; I will wither in a blink.
But its transcendence is transient,
My shallow appreciation is battered by the less real, less permanent.
Cascades of feeling freeze me under the sun
Or thaw me in the ice-rain.
My exterior encounters my surroundings,
My interior effaces any effect.
I’ve found one of the steepest hills,
Its raised above the landscape.
You can see where the sun sets, where it rises.
Everyone else seems small from above, you seem bigger.
But its so windy here.
My frailness is jostled to and fro, back and forth.
I never learnt balance. I’m scared of being thrown off, torn by the storm.
I could climb down or fall down, or stay.
A choice between this view, or that safety.
The wind is almost unbearable.
The transcendent fields, hills, valleys, and trees
Are all silent and still.
Still beautiful, still there.
Wind blows about me.