Misty, low cloud, driving through this barren, moon landscape. At the horizon, by the sea, the cloud is lifting, the light is clearing,and excitement pierces the heaviness of the day. We are are driving to the Atlantic.
We stop at the limestone car park. The stone is damp, dark, slate grey in the dampness and the grasses are glowing, burning with light, with colour, with autumn – bronze, orange, amber, grasses of fire burning against the slate grey rock.
The stone is calling me. The rock is alive.
There are pools of water by these burnt orange grasses. I know there are flowers here, waiting.
I look at the pools and feel the tears, close by.
This is faith, I think.
Here, dark, bleak, where the flowers wait to bloom.
This is the source.
This is faith.