I leave the car park and walk inland,
through a farmyard where life never
stops and across fields, where I spy
dog walkers in the distance. I enter
the woods and wind down steep, curling
paths, fallen leaves and twigs underfoot.
The woods are my favourite place
to be when the floor is carpeted
with bluebells, and the air filled
with wild garlic. I wish that I
could bottle the smell and save it
for when I need it most.
I leave the woods and stand
on the cliffs, the path winding away
along the coast, watching the sea breaking
on the exposed and unforgiving rocks below.
wind licks my face and I close my eyes,
feeling free. This is where I belong.
The path takes me up and down along
crumbling cliffs, across worn paths
until I emerge at my final destination,
a tiny cove, where shingle and sand
cover the beach, mixed with seaweed
and stones that I pick up to skim.
I roll up my trousers, leave shoes and socks
on rocks and walk down to the water’s edge
where the clear, gentle water laps
over my feet. It sends a shiver of delight
through me. It’s still cold, but I don’t mind.
Eventually, feet red, I extract them and dry
off, the spring sunshine warm on my bare skin.
I return from my reminiscences, startled to find
that I am still sat in my chair, the same four
walls around me. I long to return, although I am
not sure when that will be. Instead, I must hold
tight to my memory, dreaming of the day when I
will feel sand underfoot again and see the ocean.