Camping in Eskdale in the Lake District. Life slows down.
Near our tent, two little girls play in a stream. They pick buttercups and place them on a narrow slab of blue slate, laid across to make a bridge.
Both of their fathers appear through the trees. The girls put their arms around each other, hopping with excitement.
Come and look! We’ve made you something for Father’s Day!
The dads approach the streamside.
Walk across the bridge and it will give you happiness!
One dad walks straight across, over the buttercups, the other looks a bit hesitant.
Come on dad, walk across and you will get happiness for Father’s Day!
He walks across, somewhat reluctantly. Perhaps he has enough happiness already. Consequently there is some leftover happiness on that bridge.
The girls are corralled into waiting cars, parents complaining about stream-wet clothes, holiday over.
After they leave, I walk slowly over the buttercup-festooned bridge, walking through happiness.
in the softness
Unusually, I went for a stroll before work and was rewarded by this view and this poem.
I lived away,
for too long.
Leaving after a visit,
or passing by
on the train
or on the motorway,
I would press my nose
to the window
letting the silhouettes
of the mountains
fill me up,
cricking my neck
for that final glimpse
as I headed north.
There were hills there, too,
but they weren’t my hills.
Now I am back home
Mountaintops glow orange.
on November snow.
We adored the place. Coming to it we used to run down to the lake, dip our hands in and wish, as if we had just seen the new moon. Going away from it, we were half drowned in tears. No matter where I was, wandering about the world, I used at night to look for the North Star and, in my minds eye, could see the beloved skyline of great hills beneath it.
Floating in the perfect
rock channel harbour
of Wild Cat
Island of my imagination
and childhood reading.
Today I didn’t land
but basked in the sun
reflecting on half forgotten dreams,
happy that a life where this place
is just down the road
was one dream
I made happen.
And I wonder if there are
other dreams from younger days
buried in the habits of adulthood,
which I could choose to bring to life.