Poetry (words)

Stepping aside. 

Sat at the station seeing the people all watching their screens, bland faces, blank minds all giving in. It dawned on me how bored I am. With this and that in this stagnating pool on which I’m skimming. 

The chit chat on the platform, nonsensical sentences, tv and catalogues and singing Amazon boxes. I am confident here amongst this, I am aware of obvious failings. 

Everyone’s screaming ‘look at me’ whilst the world just passes them by, so desperate for attention at whatever cost, just as long as they don’t have to try. 

Little by little I’m stepping away from the melee that’s drowning my will. There’s so much more I desire than to just observe while those around me stand still. 

Poetry (words)


“let go” he said and trust in the hands that hold the ropes.

Overwhelmed by the edges of the land where lighthouses rule at dusk. I climbed the walls with a sheer determination to escape. I let go of all the dramas we’d created. On a cliff side they fell from me like boulders into the icy ocean, but the salt that stained my face stung with the numbness of bitter winds and the weight they carry. Just another drop in the engulfing tide. 
Calm comes, in the heat of the blazing fire, like a lovers fingertips alive with hope. As I let this wash over me the knots dissipate and every summit is in sight. 

Poetry (words)


The path seems to trickle endlessly on, or at least it’s end is out of sight. I’ve never followed it completely. The rain is making the view it’s own today, but it still holds beauty in my memory. There are hollows here, burrows of time safe from the salt air. I’ve seen these cliff tops in spring, alive with nature, but resting now. I came here to dream, to think and the slate grey conditions are like a blank page. How different the ocean smells to the harbour, like all the seasons filling the senses at once. A place to shed sadness like a graveyard of thoughts. To lay to rest hostility and forget. 

Dreams hit the sodden ground like anvils too heavy to carry for the distance. The homeward journey will be a lighter one. The sense of loss has long passed and those feelings barely matter now in this reality. 

Poetry (words)

Walk with me.

At the hilltop I can see my breath, my heartbeat pounds at my chest like it can’t find the exit on this adrenaline fuelled high. This is freedom. I have places to be and all the time in the world to get there. Eric the Pomeranian greets me with the usual excitement, this ball of fur skimming the ground like a whirlwind in courtship. I drop to my knees to show gratitude for such a welcome. Bonds are made here. When in passing the familiar we find attachments, connections. 

My thighs ache from the steep incline, so I rest. The ground is damp, but I’m as waterproof as I ever was. No artist could capture this moment, this expanse of life before my eyes. Such movements so fleeting that to blink now would skip several scenes. I’m only just learning to love this season and my head is already way over my heels with adoration. I retain my promise to tread lightly without expectation and these rewards are priceless. 

Onwards. I pass the sheep, still nervous of this two legged beast and I feel the purest sorrow in my heart for the suffering they endure, to death I hope I carry this empathy always. I want the patch of earth where I finally come to rest to be part of this. No headstone necessary no intrusive verse. Bones and nature a peaceful reunion. 

I detest barbed wire. 

The rainfall runs down these hills causing pond like puddles in every dip reflecting blue skies like pools of glass. Insects skim with such grace and I wonder do they feel as blessed as I do. 

“PLEASE DO NOT FEED THE PONIES” screams the sign from the hedgerow, whilst the ponies are nowhere to be seen the sign has always been here. 

I move from sunlight to shade. Dampness fills my nostrils. I adore this aroma. Some would say that it’s tainted with decay, but I smell nature’s relentless cycle of survival. I tread on life here, a cushion of growth below. Acorns already taking root with just the dappled shortened daylight to incubate their journey. Fungi clings to fallen trees, give and take is in abundance, thriving in understanding. 

The knowledge I gain here is irreplaceable, I expect there are libraries bursting with this information, but to be amongst this is beyond reading the experiences of the scientific minds. To run your fingers down the trunk of an oak to feel its life on your skin is knowledge of a different kind. Insight is awakened here. 

I find the moss covered bench and unpack my lunch and my notebook. It’s a scribbling mess, but to those who know me it makes some sense….I think. I don’t tick boxes or keep lists I’m never disappointed because I’m never searching. I don’t want to be in a crowd of people in a competition of pointing at something and missing the point completely. I like coffee from a flask. 

Inquisitive squirrels overhead scrambling to a vantage point. I wonder if they tick boxes….she’s got an apple!! ✔️ I’ll leave half when I’m done. Maybe an orchard will grow, maybe not. My fingertips are cold so I dip out of the shade and into the glow. I pass walkers who smile and nod, some only glance, but I’m ok with a glance. I think we’re all here to be away from there. 

The tractors have left deep muddy paths in which I slide and squelch. I could have avoided them, but to head home without being even slightly stained here wouldn’t feel right. That essence of childhood splattered up my legs is as important now as ever. If I wanted clinical I’d have sat in front of a tv and watched other people walking.

Uphill again, crows caw and starlings gather to perform. They curve and shape the sky around them. Dancing on the thermals no audience necessary. Everyone tells you that you must have goals and dreams….I stand in mine every minute I am here. I didn’t strive to be here, I didn’t climb a ladder. I fight on the side of nature to keep the beauty of these surroundings free. It is the most important thing in my life and it gives more gifts than I can ever convey, but I’ll keep trying. 

Poetry (words)

Deeper meanings 

On certain days the wind makes the last leaves dance, they rise and and glide without the hindrance of limbs. Layers of falling of sun-infused, of rain-soaked shimmering lay at my feet. The corvid calls from the skeletal canopy, breathing life into these wooden skies. Happiness has plans for me and I hear those plans whispering without conditions. A lifetime of searching for something impossible….. not now. Even under the greyest light this love fulfils, no song yet written can compare to the symphony laid out before me. 

Seed heads on gravity’s pull fall silently full of the greatest inheritance. They are the feet in the future, it’s on their limbs that we shall slumber at dusk only to wake beneath the glow of distant constellations. I look for deeper meanings in all the things we fight for, but it doesn’t exist. Humanity is a selfish book in dire need of repair.