Leith Hill is an area of secluded forest and a microclimate, not too far from Dorking in South East England. As for the image? Does what it says on the tin.
He feigned, I think, a certain interest in where I’d been.
And so, as if by accident, I let it slip. I humoured him: he
Flattered me – or toyed with whether he should. I’d been about,
Nuzzling for apples in autumn: apples and mushrooms;
Prowling the woods, happy as a dancing bear that had
Slipped its chains, in a bower filled with mortal things -
Things resigned to linger whilst they lasted: not needing to
Stage a show, but rather, each being true to itself – in cooling,
I hold in my hands the issues that give fullness to
A life: like fruit, ripening or rotted, polished in contemplation
Or else, all but forgotten: the seeds and chaff that make
Remembrance whole. And I know that, for most of my years,
I have been sleepwalking. But as for him, that brother of mine?
In the autumn of his being, still he has not awoken.
I try to touch him, wanting to make good our shared past,
Wanting to make well the wounds we must both feel; and no,
He’ll have none of it. With his hard gaze, sharp as shored-up
Glazing, he sees the wraith of my cast-off self, and knows
Oblivion is his prudent choice.
In his great car he glides to the office: chasing the debtors, the
Malingerers, the ones who won’t pay. Buoyant in virtue,
Invincible in belief, suspended like a foetus in the warm fluid
Of ego, he stares upon a world of absolutes, as bright as glass.