photo: Photo: The church of Penally in winter, yet one always feels as if it’s winter in an old church like this one, from the Celts to the Normans, fragments of Norman life inside, I feel at home.
Here, the wind speaks in syllables older than language.
Winter asserts itself in the vastness of the white space,
which emits a silence.
My thoughts thinned by the cold.
The ancient gesture of the sun passing low over the hills like a hand across the brow. Again.
Solitude is so full it empties the self.
I listen to the snow melting under stone.
I feel at home
