I sit hopeful in your reluctant sun where the gulls cry mournfully. Where the sky is a palette board of innocent whites, sulky greys and brave blues.Where the wind carries the salty signature of the sea.
I watch quiet as the innocent morning stretches itself expectant between pale dawn and soft noon, drawing in muted, luminous colours from the air and from the slow turning of the earth.
I rise willing, allowing the afternoon to find me on one of your wild and blustery paths atop a rugged, gorse-claimed cliff high above the green and marine crash and swell. Far from the restless ocean-white horses racing blindly for the shore. In distant sight of a tiny purposeful fishing boat, checking pots and nets with the faintest throaty gurgle of a bronchial engine
I wear thankful another thin layer as your wood-fire scented evening with its Atlantic chill wraps itself around my shoulders. I sip wine as red as blood in this secure and solid cottage hewn from Welsh stone and slate. I hear the certain stroke of past centuries in the peaceful ticking of a clock.
I lie unchained without map or compass in the waiting arms of your inky black night. I roam solemn and untroubled among the indistinct and unaware shapes of lovers, friends and strangers. I sleep safe without fear or regret, sharing the shelter of a familiar roof with a fair and constant woman and our graceful, youngest child
Tomorrow I will wake with a silent hymn on my lips to your unchanging, poetic Celtic nature and ancient soul. And I will whisper an age-old god-less prayer in thanks for the perfect peace of this quiet and gentle holiday.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photograph by David Wilson
I wrote this a few days ago while staying in my beloved West Wales but was unable to post it because of a lack of connectivity.
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