Lake Distriict-Borrowdale-1986

Borrowdale – Pen Sketch WHB – 1986  © 


Yes, my youth brought many vital moments
among my native hills.
Such interludes return now
in flashback and in dreams
in vignettes and in echoes;
instances of acute sensitivity,
memories more precious and persistent
as year passes into year.

I wish I had been more alive then,
more interwoven with my surroundings,
instinctively attached to the skies above
and to the rolling landscape below.

For there, on the vast wide-open moorland
where, above my breathing,
what I heard, was only the sound of the bees
visiting the sun-yellow gorse,
and the sighing rustle of the breeze
playing amongst the curls of bracken,
the blackbirds circling above in the sundown dusk,
calls of the curlew, lapwing and meadow pipit
lost in broom , hidden in heather.

Sometimes, in the bliss of solitude’s memory,
I have known a disregard for time itself,
and I sense I would happily reach eternal slumber
in the rapturous throes of such longing.



4 thoughts on “Longing

  1. A wonderful trip down memory’s lane Roland. Sometimes I wonder if my memories of childhood are like a well groomed garden, the weeds have all been pulled and I am left with only pretty flowers.

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    • That has to be true, Jerry. In fact a friend from my youth has just reminded me that the forestry commission has now covered much of the rolling heather clad hillsides which I loved in regimented plantings of coniferous trees.

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