It was before seven when we set off to the sea, but, even before we were lost, we had changed our destination.
A while before we had spoke of going to this place, to listen to the silence, to make love with nature, in nature; with the noise of nothingness, to be there, with peace, with richness all around us.
The festival is a few weeks away, but already the campers have begun to arrive, the half-barrel barbecues burn, over the twigs of beech and hazel.
Unperturbed we climb the stile, with its water tap and its own electric light, we wander off, out among the grasses, you lead on, pulling your clothes gently together.
I take a photograph; of my shadow, of your stature, of the swaying grasses, in the space that is somehow between us.
We wonder at the wondrous landscape, as we lay down with our love beside us; stillness brings the spoken, and unspoken meditation; for which we thank, for which we bless.
And then we rise, just as the moon rose above us; we each take our picture, we each take the moons picture, we hold hands and slowly walk away, away back, slowly onwards, on from this place called heaven.
The moon is full, a few days ago, after our walk through Tennyson country, we had talked of returning to the church in the still of night.
The map book was with many torn out pages, yet still Tetford and Somersby survive, both found on the plotted paper, and by our slow drive with the surest of directions.
We park, by the telephone box, across the road from Lord Tennyson’s birthplace, next door to the castellated, misplaced, fading into decay diversion.
The churchyard gate is open, the Yew are still, we stand together, at the unopened unbolted door; I feel afraid, I also feel your fear.
We enter together, the door we have left open, we hug; our fear is transferred, passed through one, to the other, then onwards into that place where no one ever knows.
After a while we sit in the pews, though I cannot settle; this is your place, this silent beauty suits you, it belongs to you, I stand aside and reflect back upon your stillness.
We walk at almost zero pace, ambling, without haste or urgency to the still parked car, after closing the church door secure behind us.
The moon is full, surrounded and spread with just a shade of orange, just a wisp of cloud.
We drive off, the moths dance in the glare of the headlights, we are heading home; tonight we have entered into the land of magic, tonight we have entered into the land of love
