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Alone On a High Ridge
My spirit flew away to far off lands, travelling over hills and vales, o'er seas and deserts dry, until it arrived high on a cold chain of ridges, where soft winds caressed my face, freshness embalmed my inner self. Perhaps that's why I saw her there, alone lying on her back, gazing up at the sky savouring the exquisite joy of silence. For in that treasured tranquillity dreams have room to spiral from the depth of her eidetic memories renewed and revived, never forgotten. Out of that quietude she heard the soft voice of her essence, reflections of her life, the joys of motherhood, the fulfilment of love, the pangs of parting, the pain of illness, the weakness of humanity, the dreams and emotions that ebbed, flowed and ebbed again. I knew she left her home town deserting her desolate living renouncing all the humdrum of city lights. No wonder she flew away seeking refuge on a mountain side, above a cascade of water, lying on the sweet grass that bordered the lonely stream. For here she was at peace. Relief tears trickled down her cheeks: she could never really forget. My spirit felt for her for I could feel that deep inside her was beauty never bound. I knew despite her tears, she was happy there: oh, that she could remain on that pretty mountain nook holding tight to hope: happy amongst the heather near the tumbling brook for ever and evermore.
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Book: Reflection on the Important Things