I think of the Yorkshire Wolds as my spiritual home, especially those high ridges - often the sites of ancient barrows - where, on a sunny day, you can gaze down and see for miles and feel that you are closer to the sun than those below you.
Icarus of the Wolds
not quite in clouds but nearly there,
looking down across the sun-brushed land.
Not a bird, but hardly still a man.
Is this what death will be like:
a disconnection not completely made;
a time to leave
but wanting just a moment more