At the height of summer
I sat under the mighty beech,
a warm breeze
stroking the lush ferns,
carrying away sweat
from the walk up.
Sitting on the stones by the fire,
the age of the place
triggers that particular feeling
of being pleased to be alive.
Take no living thing for granted.
The beauty of my inconsequential nature.
This is a place for wild camping
my Buxton friends say. I take them at their word.
The bridge falls into the stream.
There’s a derelict pump house
deeper in the valley that served the vanished reservoir.
Just somewhere to escape the bustle now.
I didn’t make it to the peak.
Next trip for sure.
Staring fixatedly at the moon
hurts a mind already inflamed.
A thought captured
then quickly bypassed
as the cotton wool effect kicks in.
Reasons for meds are clear:
visions of Old Nick, The Grim reaper
with other visuals in the high state.
In the low, a dark cloud encircling.
The moon intimidates. I will never understand why.