Heath and Heaven

This is the edited version that appears on the Canvas piece.

The original piece had additional words considered 'too heartfelt about a previous broken heart'

Heath and Heaven

Five hundred feet is no distance to fall.
No distance to fall into the detail of our Peakland lives.

Passing over Mountain hare, and peaty grough.
Winter nostalgia and frozen feet
connect our passengers minds with the mortality
of moorland wilderness below.

Moments and personality appear on cockpit canopy.
Solitary pain on the Pennine Way,
torn tendons after 100 mile gambols
are relived, redrawn in our minds

Thwack, thwack, thwack,
The rotor blades cut the air

As timeless and as invulnerable as
the gritstone of Kinder downfall,
we see lovers and walkers, fencebuilders and farmers
at work, at play and engaged with life.

Carefully planned mapping finds destination
of expected and unexpected delight,
as fields and life unfold a journey
beneath their lofty aspirations of record.

Soaring into dreamt of heavens
greenscape and rolling dale reveal their
naked rawness and covert treasure.

Great needs drive the greater world.
Outside millstone plinthed boundaries
chaos and imbalance proliferate.

Below their feet pass castles and remniscences
of life's lived, of journey's travelled.
Great green carpets of joy and ecstasy,
champagne picnics and tea swiftly taken.

A million souls abide in and around its midst,
a minature example of a greater world
thrives, flourishes and sings with life.
A lesson to us all.

Banking steeply we ease past craggy outcrop
of prehistoric time and a sense of history
sparks great memory, great occasion.

Chatsworth is resplendent in her regal glow,
Formal garden and sculpted landscape sit comfortably
bethroned and majestic, ready to pass judgement
on more lowly subjects as the water that rises and fountains.

Our park was borne, the product of man's passion
to ease the grind of working life, white rose and red.

Slap, slap, slap.
The rotors bite into thin air as we turn steeply for a
second bite at Stanage's precious edge
and golden light leaves us in awe and quiet

Hovering over precipitous orange
and awkward millstone edge,
memories cross with the personal
adrenalin of climbed routes and sunsets.

Smash, Smash, Smash
The deafening noise reverberates.
We focus on village after village
of aerial mosaic and dendritic sprawl.

So can we see need for a place of even
gentle balance and restoration.
A place where love will grow and
The greater good will pass forward.

Our ancestors thousands of years
pre-park, revealed, point at us.
Unseen from the ground
to sacred places of healing

Five hundred feet is no distance to fall.
No distance to fall into the detail of our Peakland lives.
We see shopkeepers wave, children basking in the sun on heather
and we see our past creep up and wave on limestone shore.

Falls and tumbles leave us vulnerable
in need of warmth and compassion.
Mother park as timeless as the rock
is constant, is absolute, is love.

Quietly we pass over drunken night, folk song
and friends of yesteryear, we drift over uncomfortable
union, pain of conversation and passionate date.
Nothing is left unturned, our minds are naked.

Red wine has replaced the air now,
the roaches are steeped in glimmer and glow.
The colour of attention shouts out
take me, take me home with you.

And so we will, a day to remember a day for eternity.
An occasion where we met our greater souls
and without need to die, lived a life lived.
Just another day in the Park.