I suppose I have inherited a desire to write from my father and his sister, my aunt. My aunt was awell known historian who wrote a number of books. In 1984 she wrote her memeoirs for publishing, but the publisher lost a chapter and at 84 she lost heart. It was not until the archivist at Girton College, Cambridge that it was possible to publish her autobiography which I edited plus writing the epilogue & editorial notes. Before this I tried my hand at writing poetry,but nothing published.
As I look out of the window I am struck by the sunset on the sea. The sea is calm and the sun is reflected off the water. As I watch there appears a roadway of light leading to – where? The future, the past, or maybe this is the roadway to infinity; life beyond this?
I listen to the surf on the shore, thus lulling my mind to peaceful contemplation. What is? What will be? A time to die perhaps?
As the sun goes down and darkness covers the sea I ask, is this the time for me? Immortality; but nevertheless a comfort of faith, hope and peace. I smile at my contentment
Stillness, silence, listening
Bells in valleys, warm sun.
Light on mountain peaks, on snow.
The evening light pale crimson
heather, rock, water,
large trout swimming in pools.
Scent of pines after rain.
Listening to silence
Howgills, their summits,
peace, a quietness not heard elsewhere.
Silence and peace
listening to that small voice
God, man, earth,
past, present, future.
Listen to peace, to peace, to peace.