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
Head,
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
to
linger?
