I have the good fortune to live on the edge of the Peak District National Park and I am also currently blessed with a lifestyle that enables me to explore the superb countryside on my doorstep frequently. Lathkill is one of the hidden treasures of the peak and is at its best in winter in midweek when there is space to enjoy a timeless, numinous sense of peace. This is an old and-as far as I can recall- an unpublished, reflective poem.
Here silence is a gentle irony
A chuckle of creation and desire
In a languid run of shallow waters
Over ancient bones and creviced limestone.
Knowing our own life blood runs with rivers
As alive as our own internal tides
Sentient with improvisation
Whatever soul is, we will find it here.
Occasionally in quieter times
I have stirred with a vague unease
Sensing cold ancient eyes, watching me
From some stubborn curse of old religion.
Here the silence is turbulent, timeless
Reverberating with ancient trauma
The ancient love of hunter gatherers
The ugly death -wish of Neanderthals.
A silence then of timeless resonance
A thing that some may call belief
This private silence you alone can own
In whatever personal space you know.