I hiked to the top of the mountain crest
Where I made some time to breathe
Took piney air in fresh green gulps
And it made my soul feel clean

Free from the judgments that men make
Their talking heads and games
Away from their petty opinions and
Bad endings we can’t disclaim

And the noisy chatter was blown away
By the brisk Welsh westerly wind
Where the black slate slopes are cold and wet
And the sweet sheep my best friends

Where the landscape spake by the castle keep
Of the ancient Celts that dwelled
In that same rough place that I kept my pace
There were Druids casting spells

Then I saw my prehistoric self; dreadlocks in my hair
When there were no combs,
I was scant of clothes
But I wore some bones for flair

Upon my feet were skins with peat
Tucked inside to keep them warm
And I upped and ran when I saw my clan
To the hill fort I was born

But it’s just like me to be guilty of dreams
Seeing fantasy images wind
‘gainst the clock I raced to inhale that space
So a day I could feel it was mine

Written by Sara Fielder © June 2014