Chapel Bridge. It faces East. I have sat there, watching
The subtle Soul of ancient landscapes – history etched into the dirt we stand on. Spider-woven threads and echoes. Drifting whispers, dead voices calling, cloud-heavy horizons, roads that go nowhere.
Grass that rattles and creaks like widows teeth, and the drum beat of armies marching cross rivers and plains, and trees that were saplings in a time before now, when the oak and the willow suckled food from leftovers of ancestors bones and people unknown, when time was … different; before the tyranny of clocks and the fizzle-hum of electric; when our blood was a cocktail of drifting peoples; when winter was cold, and rivers were frozen threads of ice-silver joining dots on a parchment made from an animal long gone, unremembered, until now; and the rough of our skin was a tattoo of hard living in a time less forgiving, an echo in history, a touch across time, a breeze on my cheek that carries the sounds of children playing, who got old, who got dead, became vanished and swallowed by the brown peat and bog of fenland and marsh-scape stretching out to the North Sea, and under it too, where bison and wild things once thundered in herds, before the ice melted and wood became waves.
I find myself ethereal. But also, not. I am in this history, I am become part of this landscape, making patterns in the dirt and the mud with my feet. I am tiny, for sure. Insignificant, at most. We are never just onlookers. We change things. The shadow we make in the sun creates shade for something else to live or die in. The water we drink becomes thirst for another. We are born again in future times.
illogicaldust