Heathen

Heathen.

When the buzz and bleep world wearies me; and I yearn for respite.
I find solace in a walk alone, on the barren Moorland height.
No flowered glades or pasture. No bright birdsong filled trees.
Yet in it’s wild majestic starkness; more beautiful than these.
Best of all are the rainy days, when the whitened clouds hang low:
Pale orange sunlight, tinting the hills, with a gentle, heavenly glow.
Few are those, who venture, on such days to higher ground.
As sweet nature softly sighs, when there’s no one else around.
High solitude is a thing to bless, it calms the heart and mind.
Any wanderer one may meet, is a soul mate of your kind.
Some may briefly sit and share the hot fluid from a flask.
But conversation is always slim. No questions there to ask.
Mostly, another encountered, will pass by, with a smile and a nod.
And you know that they wish to be alone; as you are with your God.
For whatever God may be or not, on the lofty wasteland place:
Here is splendour. Here is glory. Here is the stillness of true grace.