(After a very difficult few weeks, helping look after a relative suffering the last stages of cancer. )
I don’t want to write for a few minutes, but rather sit here and soak in the peace.
It has been too long. I am too tired to think.
I breath in the cool damp air, close my eyes, open them again and look to the sea.
A small flock of pipits rise and caught by the breeze arc away towards the hill. They are an analogy for something within, but I can’t put my finger on what.
The last time I came here this place was all wrong. Cold and bleak. Now it feels like life. Like breath. I would dissolve and seep into these rocks. Here. Forever. I have thought about this before, to be a rock on this hill. The calm being of it. Warm and chill. Rain tears on stone skin. Night sky. Day sky. Skylarks. A peregrine’s cry. In the spring a bird’s nest, a wheatear or stonechat’s maybe, at my feet, or behind my stone ear.
Am I irritated that a place can change so radically, from the negativity of my last visit, to the adoration of this? If I am honest, yes, but ridiculously – do we expect the desert traveler and the drowning man to see the same river?
Jon James 
Very sorry to read this.
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