Chalk and flint beneath the soil,
where the winds of the Downs blow sweet and low,
and the ghyll streams trickle down through shadow,
carving quiet tracks through moss and ironstone.
Here, the ancient woods keep their secrets—
in the pale bark of beech,
in the deep, cool hush of the valley floor
where the tide of the sea echoes softly from the coast.
You carry the landscape in your blood:
the ridge line open to the sky,
the dark woods holding the twilight long,
and the water carrying every memory back to the deep.
No comments:
Post a Comment