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Away yet home

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Wales again tomorrow

Away from home, yet home.

A place of joy and sadness. Warm memories, gentle pleasures and quiet loss.

I will walk the rugged clifftops in the salt wind, the moody sea constant at my shoulder, Ireland an imagined shadow on the far horizon.

I will feel the cooler air on my face, see the turning of leaves, watch Autumn settle like fire in woods and valleys.

I will enjoy the sun and the rain, seasons changing in a day.

I will hear the lilt of history, change and hope in the returning language.

I will write wildly, poor connection leaving me less distracted.

I will sleep longer, the dark flowing river a silent lullaby.

I will miss you.

And all the things that are, that were, and that will never be.

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@ the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Photograph by me, taken on the coast in West Wales earlier this year.

 
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Posted by on September 17, 2021 in Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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Sojourn

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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.

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© 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. 

 
24 Comments

Posted by on August 5, 2015 in Still Life

 

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