A place…

Ragged raw hills of history,

bathe the patterned troughs,

Where we sew lives together.

The now,

catching it’s breath,

under raised umbilical wires.

We cluster,

clinging to each other’s places.

Black and grey slashing movement,

through the gaps.

Ways made first by feet,

wood and finally metal.

Ordered land given shape by people long lost,

carved into purposeful pieces,

bound, walled and walked.

Names and stories that have lost meaning for us,

but still, now, our place.

Here we dig our holes and raise our temples.

Here we find rhythm,




Here we find a place,

to dream of unfettered heights.