Stand at a high place and look.

Hair-rush winds lung freshen.

Wind, neither warm nor cold, they’d call a gale.

 

No bother weather that’d put the good folk off.

Stand in a jumper when they’d insist on a coat.

 

Wind: releasing tension’s grip;

ferreting out knickety burr-wrinkles;

soothing skackety skick-crinkles.

 

Breathe Height; ride groundswell.

See aeons stretch; reach out and grip the distance.

 

Hear emptiness resound: open up to space.

Gasp-release as back-lax ease dimensions drift-skew you soft.

 

Regard the world below, where the nuisance breeds,

folk create bother, useless huvver-buvver aggro-critters.

 

See the world of will-stealing households and arguments.

Of jobs of work.  Of I wants and you-need-tos.

Demands to satisfy the hassle-creed.

 

Up in my high place that’s the far away.

Up in my high place I’m close by.

Up.  In my place.  Just me.  Away.