Up here nothing matters. With only time, nature and wind, things become transcendent.
On Lamentation Hill I feel a longing. The breeze carries small, floating seeds - a foreshadowing of autumn. Trees tall and proud have grown here all the time that elsewhere I have lived and grown. They are markers of time - of the years passaging through our lives.
A granite rock, embedded with delicately glistening quartz in the full glory of the sun as it breaks clear from drifting clouds, provides a resting spot.
From this warm oasis the forest, the braes and higher hills frame the horizon. A gentle wind, a mellow hum through branches of bush and tree, keeps insects at bay. A bird chirps.
I give thanks for years come and gone, that slipped by with the same almost unnoticeable movement of the world turning, or the clouds that drift west to east.
Thoughts shift to people and places I have known. Where are they now? If we were to meet again, what conversations might we share about how our lives turned out, and how far off shared times meant something always to be remembered?
The sun blinks out, obscured by a grey cloud. The warmth fades, the perfume of the heather is gone. It is time to move on.
