The Last of the Digestives

I nipped up Fusedale in the brief weather window this morning. As forecast it started raining pretty hard around midday so I decided not to carry on into Martindale but retraced my steps.
I only saw three others who were speeding along behind me. I hate that feeling of people being on my heels so I ducked down behind a rock by the waterfall to have my coffee and I rummaged in my rucksack and found a last digestive... it reminded me of freespiral’s recent discussions on the Last of the Mohicans.
It gave me time to watch the wind racing down the fellside through the grasses and space to think about what to write in a card. It seems hard to find space to think whilst still surrounded by so much stuff at home.

The rest of the day spent on the endless sorting whilst listening to Satish Kumar on a pilgrimage to St.Nectan’s well.

The Moment - Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you
like a wave and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.