I was not here for the walk

I was not here for the walk.
I was here for the sound.
For the thrashing onslaught,
and the chunnering retreat.
How far was inconsequential.
It was not measured by legs,
in strides and crunches.
It was measured by my heart,
as it expanded across the horizon.

I was not here for the walk.
I was here for every detail,
each droplet of foam as it rose,
through the air.
Each brown and grey.
Each incongruous white.
The purses of mermaids,
and the golden strike that parts,
the clouds and lands up on the cliffs.

I was not here for the walk.
I was here to feel each roll of the ankle,
each articulation of the arch and toes,
as they held the land,
and knew it.
I was here to feel the gentle threat,
of droplets on my face,
as towards the darkening broody hills,
I fearlessly strode.

I was not here for the walk.
I was here to marvel at each,
heart-shaped stone which drew my eye,
and felt like a warning.
Here you could sit cold, alone and buffeted.
Better to be seen,
and slipped into an admiring pocket,
to be taken home and treasured.
Home, into the warmth.
Home into the familiar.
Safe

I was not here for the walk.
I was here to be terrified,
Awed into silenced.
Moved by your majesty.
I was here to have my cheeks bitten numb,
And my temples prodded sore by your frozen fingers.
I was here to feel alive.
There was no trig point to be tagged,
no Wainwright to be bagged,
just this simple, mad cacophony that told me I was free.

© Sarah Hunter

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