I want to be in the wild places,
where stone walls edge a line in time.
Gaps in the stones hold a coded message,
we will know, but never work out.
I want to be in the wild places,
the endless heather wastes,
where bitter winds carve circles of bracken,
each a new ambiguity.
I want to be in the wild places,
in the sheltering vale, or rotting woods,
holding tales of the past, we are not party to.
I want to be in the wild places,
where rain persists for days,
and the safety of the car remain a distant illusion,
the way back etched in memories
I want to be in the wild places,
on the leeside of rocks,
under sheltering overhang,
holding fast to a granite reality.

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