Times breath on this hilltop is no steady in, and out
But an infinite eddying ceaseless roil
Of air tumbling endlessly in the atmospheric boil
That makes of it such a rude and unruly uncouth lout.
Its mostly Westerlies up here that rip the tears from your eye
Rushing over from the Azores hurrying urgently east
Racing for the North Sea, this skin scouring beast
Will send you huddled and scuttling to escape its angry sky,
Retreating, the mighty rustle of the high trees’ line
Whispers a bleak song, rushing past above,
It’s held in your body, an evolutionary rhyme,
That caresses you with the memory of love,
Reminding you how alone we all are, a singular glowing spark
Stormtossed on a westerly, traversing an ancient dark.
Poetry inspired by the Quantock Hills of Somerset, GPS-located into the Quantocks
Quantock Poetry Trail 