Landmark
by Tris Kerslake
Just there, beyond my ordinary sight, behind those hills, across grave fields of rumpled soil, lies the centre of the world.
Without a sign, distaining temporary things like words, there is a shouting out of place that thumps the pulse and ferries countless memories into a harbour I had not even known was bare.
At once invisible and of the stuff that mountains cross, it does not need my mark to be but all the same, indulges recognition through postcards in the tourist shop.
It does not meet the infidel’s request of gold or visionary scenes, but offers quiet temples cast in stone and air where converts come in hope, like me, of faith renewed.
And here I am. With almost music and with grass beneath my feet, I know this place. Mother, father, heart, I am a child of here.