by Peter Bennett, UK
I rise up the cliff, slowly for once, there is no urgency. I am fully awake, taking in the sharpness of the crags and the softness of life clinging to them. Grey granite is speckled with flakes of mica, they catch the sun and wink rainbows at me as I float. The soft moss, not so soft close up, for all the small green spikelets pointing skywards. They are loving sun and moisture, returning life to the whole plant. On a whim I reach out and scoop up a little. Hands holding green, I continue my ascent. A sharpness of sounds falls into my ears. Cries of birds, outraged that I've entered their domain. The drip, drip of dawn’s dew, descending the cliff face to soak the mosses and keep boggy the peaty pastures below. The wind, whilst gentle, nevertheless lamenting an unknown sadness around organ pipe rocks. Reaching the cliff edge, I see a solitary thorn tree, it’s windblown form barely clinging on. One red berry prepares to cast its unborn into the fields below. Life is hope. I meet the eagle's eye on equal terms. He seems to wink at me before soaring off. I love this planet. so green, so beautiful, so delicate.
One thought on “Rising Up”
As the reader, you can imagine seeing, feeling and hearing the whole scene in that moment in time. You are taken into the experience with the flowing description that builds through the work. Great to read – thank you for sharing.