Shifting Landscapes

That night you passed we lit a fire.

The flames of comfort warmed and held the space.

A connection to something beyond.

An unknown place where uncertainty lies.

This landscape of grief, a constant shifting tapestry.

A blanket of many pieces that my brother and I slowly stitch.

No compass in hand.

There is no direction in mind.

The moor shrouded in mist, where movement is futile.

I’m lost; nothing is familiar.

I hear a knell as boot strikes stone.

A causeway built by ancestors lies beneath my feet.

A well worn route where thousands have trod.

A pathway to another world.

I trace its line out from the darkness, to a green field where you will lay.

Bounded by stone walls where stoats hide and play.

And small green ferns whose tender fronds unfurl as winter melts away.

This field where the sheep mooch and graze is nestled within a familiar place.

Here your mind and body loved to roam.

The purple moor a connection to your South Yorkshire childhood home.

Where the city of steel abutted the wild and rugged peak.