July 19th. Langsdale valley. The Lake District.
Amongst the hills, the storm I walked and heard the hills, the rocks and river speak.
The heart and blood of the land, as the thunder roared the rain poured.
The river spoke of life and the rocks my dreams.
The hills were my guardian and the thunder was the voice of my gods.
And for a time we were one, the same.
In the rain I sat by the river on a rock and looked up to the hills, the future.
The Gods called to me, again and again in thunder.
The river spoke of life and showed me the past flowing by.
The rock provoked thought and dreams.
And as i sat, in the present. The rain poured, thunder roared, amongst the hills and the storm.
6.45pm. 19th July. Langsdale.
The clouds have come again and I hear the past.
The hills are dark and it is turning cold.
The sun has gone and the trees are motionless, silent. A storm is collecting.
Yet, on the summit of a distant hill, there is light amongst the dark. Somehow it breaks through from somewhere. I watch as the light spreads and the hills become alive once more.
The light travels swiftly towards the valley where I sit, alone.
And I think of the future, until, it disappears once more into darkness and again the memory of the past is here with me.
this time though, the ground beneath my feet is not harsh but soft and lush and i smile briefly. I know the storm will pass.