From upper to lower Bowdon Road, lamp posts number from nine to one; each equidistant, standing tall, echoing its former Victorian glory.
What pompous relics you are, claiming the extent of this dated pavement, with cast iron base,
Cold, solitary and unloved, black paint chipping off,
year after year, raindrop after raindrop.
Embarrassingly, you now promote the crude 1950s conversion project, ugly electric lamps atop of these mismatching structures of yours.


The light you cast is terribly dim, barely making out the shape of your neighbouring bush.
Though at daytime, this Holly bush looks less haunting, less sinister actually.
Look closer!
See how her leaves at the lower level branch out, ferociously defending themselves with thorns, keeping ground dwelling animals at bay.
Yet higher up, she retreats meekly into a fashion for rounder shaped leaves, almost pleasing to touch with bare hands.


Holly and Yew hedges take roots deep into the Earth, desperately finding more room to grow.
And over the years, pushing against the grey stone walls.


These stone walls, have you even noticed the distinct discolouration and surface texture, layer by layer? You see, these ones were the original, and when the wall collapsed, the then owners employed the bygone but best stonemasons from town to refurbish this barricade a hundred years later. Like tree trunks, and the wrinkles on one's noble forehead, age never lies, but visibly displays what is True to the discerning eye.


Though things age, someone does positively remain forever youthful and free spirited; who would that be, But the passing Robin!


Look, listen!


There it is again! Hear the "wings flappiss" of this enigmatic creature! Can you not see his unpredictable flight path towards you? His skipping, his hopping? Look carefully. See his Joy and Laughter in your minds' eye; please never forget,
Robins are and Will always be your friend.
If you see one, only breathe out well wishes.


Stop, feel!


See the invisible wind for a change,
Why not be still for once.
Relish the undulating pulse and dynamics,
Can you not hear EE's nostalgic whistling?
If you can, you have come to the Malvern Hills.



The ghost of Edward Elgar silently teaches you what is Truth to the Ears, Mind and Heart,
Only if the Soul is still enough,
Willing enough to comprehend.


Smell that invisible wind for a change also,
Summer adorns the wind with impermanent lovely scents.
Oh, what wonderful yellow flowering Gorse!
Funny, isn't it?
This smells like York University, and,
Paradoxically, even smells like the coconut hair wax pressed into the circular metal tin with the white lid advertising Body Shop.


The smell of the woodfire is now evident in the evening sky; can you not smell it? There it is.
Heralding Autumn and Winter,
the intermittent crackling of the logs in the stove,
Warms the senses, fires up the sense of contentment, brightens the clarity of Inner Peace.


This hypnotic, meditative nature of the Winter fireplace, though, is nothing compared to the tolling of the distant church bells in the valley.