At the recent Seahaven Poets workshop, we talked about all of us needing the healing of natural spaces.
We talked about alot, to be fair, but that was one topic we spent some time on: those neverwhere, neverwhen places.
To sit and look, feel far away, to find that gap between the hassle and the humdrum and just occupy that place.
There’s a place, in Wales, up in the hills, where that gap is gaping wide, and you can’t help but fall straight into it in a moment of memory-bliss.
These places heal us, anchor us, provide us with something.
Lucky folk live and work in these spaces; many of us do not.
And for those of us who do not, finding them can be an adventure, is half the fun itself.
This poem is about that place in the hills.
I’ll never forget it. I know it’s still there. For when I go back.
Audio – My Place
Stand at a high place and look.
Hair-rush winds lung freshen.
Wind, neither warm nor cold, they’d call a gale.
No bother weather that’d put the good folk off.
Stand in a jumper when they’d insist on a coat.
Wind: releasing tension’s grip;
ferreting out knickety burr-wrinkles;
Soothing skackety skick-crinkles.
Breathe Height; ride groundswell.
See aeons stretch; reach out and grip the distance.
Hear emptiness resound: open up to space.
Gasp-release as back-lax ease dimensions drift-skew you soft.
Regard the world below, where the nuisance breeds,
folk create bother, useless huvver-buvver aggro-critters.
See the world of will-stealing households and arguments.
Of jobs of work. Of I wants and you-need-tos.
Demands to satisfy the hassle-creed.
Up in my high place that’s the far away.
Up in my high place I’m close by.
Up. In my place. Just me. Away.