Half way up the hill, a bench,
stone built, wooden slatted,
a kind convenience.
A marker in history,
commemorates time spent
watching the view.

I was here once, alone.
Alone for a reason.
Set my back against the wall,
and waited.
As a thousand thousand souls
have stopped here,
(there is no reason not to.)

Below, far, far below
the eternal beach changes shade,
and cars can be heard toiling up the hill.
The wind in the south turns,
comes overhead.
Rain, pushed over Esters field,
left me untouched.

Down on the beach,
people scattered, rushing for shelter,
abandoning their day.
Cursing as the wind picks up,
tussles, bullies them out.
Reasserting the joy of my lee.

Though I knew what was coming,
inevitable, uninvited, but welcomed.
In came in the lonely melancholy memory,
of time spent here as part of the view,
time held in glory, and sorrow.

It touches me now, tinged with nostalgia,
a lump in my throat.
“You belong here, this is your place,” it says.
“From the stone huers hut,
to the grass car park,
the flying hill’s sweep,
and down to Aire point.
This is yours.”

This is my place.
Wind, the rain, the sullen cloud,
are as they should be. Still.
I don’t know how much time passed then,
only that too much has since.
This was right, this is my place.
Though again, I’m only passing through.

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