The moments mount and change - these rare intimate exchanges with the natural world, these life shattering, shape shifting epiphanies press out to turn a corner on life. They keep occurring.
You may think me strange, but I suspect you understand.
I am sitting in the shade on the rock seats of one of the remaining walls of the nave of Glastonbury Cathedral, destroyed by Henry VIII.
In front of me is the burial site of Arthur - King of all Britons.
Above me are the clouds of a blue British sky
The grasses and subtle English daisys growing within remind me that what Henry really did was turn this temple of God into a temple of the Goddess. It has become a woman's place, no longer cold, baren, foreboding; no longer filled with mercerary, over hungry humans who paid with their lives to be included in the Christian model.
The Cathedral is now the celebration of late summer; warm, inviting with life vibrating through the flowers adorning every tower. This holy place is ready to begin the fall celebration of colour before the winter rains come once again.
All are returned to the cycle