Thought I’d head out to where the grass grows long. To get away from the constant hum. If only for a while. I sat amongst the silence, camera muted and the world on hold.

This has become my place, when the normality of Sundays routine is too routine. It’ll be there on my return, but for now it’s a memory. I pass farmland where the cattle graze, uninterested in my footsteps. Their fate already decided, of which I’m glad they’re unaware. 

I can feel the muscles in my legs at full stretch a burn from the gradient. It’s here that the view opens up. Of grassland and cliff tops. I deviate from the route. I’ve found a path less trodden where can lay my blanket without obstruction. 

I take my notebook and write, of the things I’ve passed. I drink coffee and read for a while surrounded by birdsong and contentment. Fleeting thoughts of the chaos we inflict on one-another. The very reasons I need to escape just once in a while, for perspective.

I’m on a hillside, secluded by hedgerows and trees that canopy the route, canopies abundant with berries now. I hope I can sit here throughout the seasons, I hope I can watch autumn turn to winter and write of deepest reds and icicles. 

The weather forecast says rain later, it’s around six miles back to my starting point. I dry my cup and roll up my blanket. The rucksack now one cup of coffee lighter. 

It’s a short walk down to the cliff edge. Chalk lies on the beaches below, the sea acts like an eraser here. I’m drawn to the edge, I can’t call it magnetism, it’s just a desire to look. I’ve heard some people say “imagine falling”, but I never imagine that. It’s breathtaking and naturally beautiful. I want to be here when the winter tides lash against this shore. 

The cliffs look different when lit with watery sunlight, like whites washed in an inferior detergent. The cottages come into view here. A thread of hope that ran through ‘Atonement’ a dream sequence ignited by a picture on a postcard. That one thing that keeps us all going.  
The erosion here is extensive, but people are fighting to save this shoreline. Ropes stop you from reaching certain areas at this point and although they are minimal in their restrictive properties I avoid the temptation to limbo. 
To the left of me The Meanders flow. To the right the steep shingled beach. 

Light rain has started to fall, but it’s not persistent yet. I take the riverbank walk. Stepping over the tank defences, remnants of WW2 are scattered along these coastal paths. The water here is stagnant green. 

The wind has strengthened and I can hear the waves lapping against the shingle behind me, but it fades to a whisper as I turn onto the riverside path. I have no phone signal throughout this walk, another reason why it feels like actual escapism. Pastimes are lost to social media, that need to instantly share every step with a photo. How much is lost through that disconnection, having to drag someone back into a moment is a moment lost. 

I stop for a coffee at one of the makeshift benches that are scattered along the path. Dragonflies skim the water before darting off so sharply that they almost become invisible. A small murmuration of starlings swoop overhead then gather in nearby trees. I adore the sounds they make. Sneezing, whooping and that cackling sound. Beautiful birds with their oily sheen. 

My notebook is damp from the random drops of rain. 

I feel detached here, like that bigger picture that I’m a part of is just a weight put upon my shoulders to keep me in line. It’s a great feeling to leave that load behind. The restraints of four walls where the TV rules is someone else’s breathing space, not mine. 

The river widens and the water no longer stagnant. Gulls float on its current, their chatter constant. Sheep grazing on the grassland between inspecting me with a nervous glance and understandably so. Their young taken from them months ago. I wonder how they feel. Humanity is a cruel master, such a disregard for life as they search for utopia. Greed, fame, hero worship. The downfalls of the idiot flock. 

If my time were to end here I’d be ok with that. Out here close to the very thing that I’ve grown to respect more than any other. 

The clouds are gathering. I pass a clump of wool caught on a barbed wire fence. It’s rough to the touch, but that’s natures design….to protect against the elements. 

I’ve swam in these waters. It’s not the most graceful experience, in parts it’s more wading than swimming nonetheless I can’t wait to swim here again. At sunset there’s a tranquility that swathes this place like a protective film of amber. 

My back is wet with drizzle being driven by the wind, but it’s the final path of my walk. I take a left through a gate and leave the riverbank’s reflection. It’s mostly uphill now, past more cattle adorned with numbered ear tags and sheep sprayed with colours and I can’t help but contemplate their suffering again and again. My emotions are justified in my head and they won’t ever change. 

I pass the hayloft. It makes me smile, I imagine clandestine meetings on windswept evenings here. The fumbling of fingertips on buttons, lips so hungry that only the most urgent of kisses could satisfy. 

The remainder of the walk is on the roadside. I put my notebook in my rucksack and head towards the hum. 

I want to walk through the seasons here to see the elements change the landscape. To feel the autumn rains on my skin, to understand the insignificant spaces between everything. 

Humility, how it sweeps through my soul. How the changes forced upon me are now the very reason I’m here lost in places full of understanding. 

My dreams are still my dreams each one born from cherished moments, but in my waking hours I leave them in  their place. 

I can’t see the big sky from here, the city lights void of atmosphere polluting the night. The roads built to bring everything close just fill the air with noise. 

Vulnerability is the balance we’ve insisted upon. In a world where yesterday fills the landfills of tomorrow. I can’t find my place. 

I am of the sea, finding solace in the tide.

I adore this place. I’m soaked in peace here.  Every knot, every regret  every unspoken word is free to roam by my side. 

I’m inspired here. The landscape swallows me and the nature that surrounds me is breathtaking. It’s not a sense of awe, but a sense of just being part of it, blending in. Salt and time. How the sea has changed the colours of everything it’s touched and how it’s been forgiven for those changes.

How many years has the sea caressed these rocks. 

I wish we faded this way. 

“And every word you burn to write, is a mark that you must own” 

That’s the thing with words you’ve written, they will always belong to you. I think that’s why I love to write. Like a map of emotions, mine always lead to the same place. Sometimes days pass and I don’t have much to say, but I could write constantly. Life gets in the way and I forget the poetry that comes to mind. It always comes back though. Quiet times are full of verses. Hearing the ebb of the tide on the pebbles or the gulls overhead. It’s not always about what I’m hearing or seeng, but about the thoughts they evoke. Like fabrics and perfume, beautiful splinters in the soul.

I do burn to write. To set aside time doesn’t work, because you cannot plan those sparks. 

Still dark as the season fades. I face it with a sense of regret. 

Long after I’ve passed you’ll be there bathed in dappled sunlight. Your secrets firmly rooted in the soil. I’ve rested in your shade, I’ve escaped the deluge of seasons here in your presence. I’ve wrapped my limbs around yours and felt the scars of this existence melt away. 

If I could pick a place, a place where love outweighs greed. Where silence and peace are not frowned upon nor noise a necessity. Where one smile is a thousand beautiful chapters in my endless heart. I’d fall silent beside you. 

You still touch me. 

Two hours sleep, but a head full of thoughts. Those thoughts will eventually become engraved on white sheets, ink so deep it never fades. 

The words still excite me. 

Does love exist without pain, does anything? Do hopes just fade when unfulfilled? Or do we hide them secretly, boxes of lost hope scattered amongst our dreams. Does hope have a resting place? 

Time capsules buried in the dirt emitting the lost words into the soil. Intoxicating the earth with unspoken desires. Maybe that’s why some roses grow profusely, and moisture collects on unfurling petals.

I’d exhume those thoughts, buried in a moment of emptiness. I’d wash those pages clean. Nothing said with an honest heart should ever be kept in such darkness. 

From the train window I see trampolines sprouting from every back yard. Keeping up with the Joneses, is a matter of how high you bounce. Hideous objects, like a cage of the modern age. The landfill of future generations. 

The football banter from the seat behind, tedious conversation. The copy and paste dialogue from every side. There’s no earplug invented to drown out that drone. Timeless warriors sponsored by Sky. 

I focus on my destination and how the calm will wash away these knotted limbs. The second stop is mine, just a platform to conquer and a ticket machine to feed. 

I can smell the sea air as my signal falls away to this blissful release.