A wonderful walk on Wolstonbury Hill, near Clayton in West Sussex, and a prompt from Creative Writing Ink, led to this:
I come up here to think.
The burn on my legs,
As my muscles heave me up the steep slope,
Keeps me earthed, focussed.
It reminds me that whatever else
I am alive, tellurian.
I bring my snags and doubts.
Sometimes they are heavy –
They wring the blood from my fingers
And turn them white.
But not today.
Today, I barely feel their weight.
Today my chest feels light and
The blue sky tells me to breathe.
The ancient mounds of grassland
With purple thistle and yellow vetch
Hold me firm and safe.
It is time, they say.
I shake the battered holder of my past,
The handle flaked and worn against my hand,
And hear the roll and rattle
Of my last few fears.
Eyes closed I launch it all into the air,
Flinging it as hard and high as strength allows.
All is still,
I hear no bump, no roll,
Just a gentle song of wind against my ears.
When I look
I see the distant clump of beeches
Winking in the sun,
Bright white curves of chalky paths,
The panorama of the weald,
And know that I am free.