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This place that I know intimately remains mysterious.
Sea air and gull cries, stone and salt breeze, sunset and sunrise…
if not here then where can I be at ease?

This place I can’t disentangle my spirit from…
that I long to escape…
remains dear to me,
bound to it by my history, nostalgically.
Pebble beach and grey sand

A sense of bodilessness…
Anchorless and unmoored,
yearning for a place of rest… and for reprieve…
from my restive soul’s badgering,
from thinking and thoughts clamouring,
from the ‘making-sense-of’
and the constant heart’s-hammering
and the considering… which way to turn.

If not here, which place could possibly hold me;
subdue my restlessness;
quell my disquietude;
enfold me and console me?

My sanctuary,
a retreat,
and a reference point for my soul.
My shelter and my bolt-hole,
the perfect layover…
on my way home.

Rotten Apples

The words evoke a pungent smell of dank leaves and windfalls… memories of an orchard years before… a childhood recollection long forgotten but suddenly reawakened from the depths of my consciousness, where it has lain dormant, buried beneath the decades and the layers of debris that have settled. Unexpectedly unearthed now the sweet, heavy scent of rotten apples rises in my nostrils for a moment and scenes flit soundlessly across my mind’s eye; dappled sunshine on leaf-strewn grass, standing self-consciously amongst the trees with the neighbours’ children as their father speaks with the farmer, more fruit than we can carry gathered in our jumpers, piling into the back of their beat-up car to return home with bags of green and rubied treasures.

26.08.2016