I walk at Birling Gap, holding the hands of lost souls.
The grass is thick and the ground soft from recent rain. In this desolate
landscape, silence is only broken by the wind and the gulls squabbling
above like petulant children…
I take precise steps through the thicket.
White chalky cliffs tumble into the sea like little ghosts. Skeletal trees
grip hungrily to the landscape, whipped by unrelenting, cruel winds.
Twisted branches reach out from agonised trees like recently hung out
washing. Vacant, purposeless fence posts litter the cliffs, jutting out of
the ground like the exposed vertebra on the back of a starving man.
I hear the rabbits scurrying in the undergrowth. They were introduced to British
pastures in the 12th century by the Normans, brough over for their use in fur coats
and to be hunted for dinner.
Occasionally, I see the black tipped ears of the shy hares emerging above their
burrows. They are wary and vigilant, scarcely spotted during daylight hours, except
by the keen observer who knows where to look.
I feel calmed by the sight of horses.
They balance delicately on the cliff tops as their teeth snip at the
roughage. Little brambles rip at their tick fur and cling hopefully in their
manes and tales. A skittish fear lingers in the whitened corners of their
wide, longing eyes.
Lost four legged orphans wandering the landscape but finding
no route to loving arms.
When the sun rises, the horses meditate in a mystical, smoky haze as the
dew, leftover from cold damp nights, evaporates off their coats.
I walk here in all conditions and seasons. As times arrow marches on, the
landscape changes over night, as if someone
flipped the page of a paper calendar.