Half way up the hill, a bench,
\nstone built, wooden slatted,
\na kind convenience.
\nA marker in history,
\ncommemorates time spent
\nwatching the view.<\/p>\n
I was here once, alone.
\nAlone for a reason.
\nSet my back against the wall,
\nand waited.
\nAs a thousand thousand souls
\nhave stopped here,
\n(there is no reason not to.)<\/p>\n
Below, far, far below
\nthe eternal beach changes shade,
\nand cars can be heard toiling up the hill.
\nThe wind in the south turns,
\ncomes overhead.
\nRain, pushed over Esters field,
\nleft me untouched.<\/p>\n
Down on the beach,
\npeople scattered, rushing for shelter,
\nabandoning their day.
\nCursing as\u00a0the wind picks up,
\ntussles, bullies them out.
\nReasserting the\u00a0joy of my\u00a0lee.<\/p>\n
Though I knew what was coming,
\ninevitable, uninvited, but welcomed.
\nIn came in the lonely melancholy memory,
\nof time spent here as part of the view,
\ntime held in glory, and sorrow.<\/p>\n
It touches me now, tinged with nostalgia, This is my place. Half way up the hill, a bench, stone built, wooden slatted, a kind convenience. A marker in history, commemorates time spent watching the view. I was here once, alone. Alone for a reason. Set my back against the wall, and … Continue reading
\na lump in my throat.
\n“You belong here, this is your\u00a0place,”<\/em> it says.
\n“From the stone huers hut,<\/em>
\n to the grass car park,<\/em>
\n the flying hill’s sweep,<\/em>
\n and down to Aire point.<\/em>
\n This is yours.”<\/em><\/p>\n
\nWind, the rain, the sullen cloud,
\nare as they should be. Still.
\nI don\u2019t know how much time passed then,
\nonly that too much has since.
\nThis was right, this is my place.
\nThough again, I\u2019m only passing through.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"