Driving down the long straight road from Oxford to Cheltenham.
Where yellow earth made walls of sliced stone.
Where opening views take you to another day,
when Romans took the land, put a ruler on it.
It was winter, late December, two days away
from the birthday of a Buddha.
Of a man who came with knowing.
And I, who had left the city streets was going westward.
To where the Celts still stroll a few hills.
Looking at the landscape, I thought of bleakness.
Of it’s meaning as absence.
I saw no absence, just subtlety.
Quiet tones, muted shades.
Bare branches.
All throbbing with colours of quietness.
Of being there in waiting.
It Was Winter
2006 ©