The storm had passed. I was walking in the open landscapes to the south of Farnham. I was alone. A warming sun had released the first scent of the pines. I could see the first bright yellow flowers on the black-green gorse; the heather, too, was in flower.
After a while I began to hear my father speaking to me.
As we looked across the open land he said:
‘Look! Stand, like that lone tree on the ravaged heath. Don’t bend, Don’t yield.
Stand – even as the gold of evening falls –
And then, in the chill of the white-pink dawn, prepare to stand again.’
Footnote: My father died several years ago. But I often find myself listening to him or conversing with him even though he is no longer alive.