On a hill above the sea
stones in a rectangle, half hid in earth.
Three steps by two – and a doorspace.

Flat on my back, within the walls of air,
I watch a flock of clouds inch slowly by.
Below, on tumbled rocks, the tide
hushes to and fro
like an old man breathing.

He lived here a thousand summers past,
The Good Man.
Chose wind and rain for his companions,
lived on seaweed and rabbits,
sunsets and whirling stars,
prayed to a god who shouted back at him
from every tree, from every curling wave.

Later, walking back to the hotel
I had the feeling I was not alone.
Someone trailed behind me. I could hear
his footsteps clatter on the stony path,
his breathing ebb and flow,
but when I turned to look
the path was empty,
the evening still.

*a small hut/chapel lived in by hermits in the 12thC