Nothing here, but still, the view.
The wind in the grasses,
the rush of the brook.
Pebbles in the stream,
of the high sided valley.
The proud prow of Bench Tor.
But again, it matters, somehow.
The way of these things,
stood there, the view excels.
Dotted about the horizon,
soft hills, other sides to a tale.
Red bracken, green gorse,
ivy, all cling a way I never could.
I know this place hardly at all,
but in the image I find myself lost.
In the past, in myself.
I feel the sharp abrasiveness,
silent, cutting, cold.
A setting son.
Expedited into my past.
to a place I’ve mythologised.
What meaning is there in a photo,
taken by someone, who I do not know,
of a time, when I was not there?
What hope is there in a place so far away,
what sustains this impression?
Why do I return, when
I know I can never go back.
But still, I can.
And I do.

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