Fog on the Moors

Sun peaks over the green of the valley’s crest, dancing across my face. An awakening I am finally ready for. Trudging through the mossy crags of the valley floor. I am lost in this place. It’s beauty encapsulating. Palest pink flowers dot the shrubs, as I pass their limbs catch at my pants. The fog of my breath lifts in the air, dancing for eternity on the rays of early morning light. Illuminating, with every step.

Clear of mind for the first time in what seems like centuries. I have longed for this place. I have longed for its beauty, the rugged countryside, and the oblivion of isolation it provides. Escaping, that’s all it can be called. Coming here from my home, where I am forced to withhold my true self. To this place, this space, and the freedom of it all.

Stumbling on a rock, hidden in plain sight, I fall to my knees. The grass, damp with last night’s dew, chills my hands and seeps through to my skin. It cuts to the bone. Hauling myself up, the trudge continues; if I keep moving, if I just keep moving, it will all be ok. The fog begins to lift high above, dissipating as the earth warms. Damp knees, less inclined to be so easily remedied; but my heart, it beats with renewed strength.

Continuing down well-worn goat tracks, I glimpse moments of my reward, I can see oceans of waves taunting me as I broach the occasional rise in the path. They are strong, driven into sure by unseen forces, ever moving and ever changing, the reality of this place. Reshaping whole coastlines every second of every day. They are constant, steady, reassuring.

Grass slowly gives way to age-worn rocks, and sand wrought with time. The cliff’s edge now well within my reach. I stand there, on the precipice, staring down at the steady stoicism of the waves below. The way they lash the beach, smoothing each pebble as it rolls back and forth across the sand… Look at how far you’ve come.

© Sarah Arber 2020