and it was all about taking time out and listening to oneself by breathing etc etc. My plan was to do so early on Sunday morning, but events took over and this plan failed completely.
It was a good day though, filled with lots of extra bits of the unexpected, so why the dark melancholy late at night when I finally stopped reading and decided at long last to go to bed?
I wish I knew, but wide awake with the rest of the house asleep, and the normal mountain breeze that sweeps across the valley taking a temporary holiday, I found myself in silence.
Maybe it was the damnation of depressing January, or the absence of Christmas chocolates, or the dark winter night waiting for the snowdrops to peek up and tell us that it will soon be Spring, but for the life of me, I can't remember when I listened and I heard so little back.
I think perhaps it's time I got out more, but the end result, a dark poem, roll on the snowdrops!
It is late, in the restlessness of night,
infrequent sounds, stark interruptions,
to silence gently carried by the breeze
that now creeps across the valley.
It is the very absence of real noise
that echoes the spell of loneliness,
‘as quiet as the grave,’
no wild bellows from the depth of earth.
Nor the voices of others asleep,
even my own, loud normally inside my head, stops,
no longer busy, seeking, running away from,
and the silence deafens.
The eerie nothingness invades.
And so I breathe,
because I must,
the harshness is in the silence I hear back.