Like a Turner painting,

The equanimity and repose seems to be over there,

The shaft of soft sunlight dancing on trees,

The timelessly framed autumnal gold, Against a backdrop of lazy cloud,

A wainwright wooden struture or two, couched in mosaic stone wall,

A gentle allusion to a moment in time when my heart stood still,

Over there,

I see it, I feel it, the stirring of hot tears of desire,

But where do I go from here?

I am here and the landscape is over there,

That yearning of peace and fulfillment,

Like water teasing and draining through outstretched fingers,

In fleeting moments, unexpected, sudden stillness,

When the machine cogs stop,

When the dawning realisation flourishes and takes root,

There is here,

I am Turner and Wainwright and I am the landscape,

I am all those things and more,

All that is over there,

Is a mirror to my soul.