There Where For you It begins Its encroachment Knowing you will be there To welcome it’s return To follow its path Waiting Watching Until bite by bite Ripple by ripple It will wash your words Across oceans To my shore
Here Where My foot printed Passage Replicates your own And signs itself With love
But in turn That will come For you Too And my own shells Of words Will flow And flood Where your bare feet Choose to follow
There is a beautiful song, composed by the American songwriter, Carl Sigman, called ‘EBB TIDE’. I came across this beautiful and moving rendering of it by my favourite male voice a capella choir, The Westminster Chorus,. i have brought these to your attention in a previous blog. please do listen to their version of ‘Ebb Tide’ at this YouTube link …Click here to watch and listen.
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.