Rombald’s moor – my moor

X ilkley weekend 030

Tall the cliffs of stone
That mark the entry to my heart’s domain,
Wild and empty in its vastness
The solitude of living earth.
The wind lifts the heart
And bears it through the storm
To where the lichen crusted rocks
Cling to the clouds.
Part of my heart remains there
Scattered with the ashes of a lost love
Mingled with the joy and pain of memory,
Of childhood wonder and a lover’s kiss.
Deep the roots which bind me to that land,
Like the weathered pines that cling for life
To the purple hillside…
Genuflecting, but standing, still,
Naked in the mist.
Or the great stones,
Ice carved in aeons past
Into a landscape of dreams,
Marked by ancient hands
With figures of Light,
That I may stand beside them,
Millennia apart,
And recognise my kin.

Morning mists near Backstone Circle

We all have special places; places that sing to our hearts, hold memories, places we could call our heart’s home. This is mine.

No words of mine can capture what it means to me, no photograph show how the colours play in my heart. And this weekend I am here, doing the Work I love, in the landscape I love, with people  I love.

Today is a gift.

The dates of this Harvest of Being weekend were chosen in the hope it would allow a friend to join us and, though sadly she was unable to do so, there was a personal reason why the timing was perfect.

Today, of all days, there is nowhere else on this earth that I would rather be than exactly where I am. Nothing else I would rather be doing than the Work I am doing. And although there are others I could wish were also here with us, I could not wish for any dearer friends with whom to share the day.

Thank you.

X ilkley weekend 151

7 thoughts on “Rombald’s moor – my moor

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