At home

I'm in Troller's Ghyll. Late afternoon sun holds the chill at bay but I know it's coming. A deep valley, a limestone tomb carved with the hands of previous lives. Shadows of long-dead lead miners fall across the well worn path and I hear the passing of their weary feet as they leave, the day's work at an end. A silence hugs the settling hills and roaming sheep nod their heads in acceptance of a natural isolation. Water is high in the Ghyll. It forces its way through cracks; it eddies, carving shapes for future generations to wonder at. I hear the rush, the power, the freedom. Darkness brings the screech of night time kills, pulsating fear for those not safe at home. I turn with thoughts of fireside warmth drawing me back along the narrow path; passed down tales of the red eyed dog snap at my heels as my imagination walks, then runs before me. Through a gate and onto tarmaced road. Safe.