Away from the flowered fields,
wooden gate, the path.
Bordered by thick gorse,
boggy underfoot.

This is the way there.
I lived here once,
my daily dog walk.
Jake, the big soft old sod.

Now, I stop when I can.
tinged with sadness, bereft.
Years between visits.
my sacred stopping place.

The path, remembered roots,
short but blessed.
Wind picks up, you reach the top.
Square rock, carved for me.

Shelter there, out of the wind
sit in this soft grass, call the dead dog,
Jake, and sit in silence.
Together, unspoken, unshared thoughts.

From here you can see,
and hear
the song of the sea.
Coloured from black to gold,
and shades of blue in-between.

The perfect house, left.
Carn Boel far right.
The bay between,
the endless sky.

Lighthouse on the horizon, blinks
There is a magic here, a dreaming.
I’ve sat here hours, walking people pass.
Hearing their tales, awaiting clarity.

What I get from this I do not know,
though it’s importance remains.

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