i walk through the gate, 

up the path, past the tall

oak, up the hill and sit 

at the top. 

With note book and 

pen in toe, i look out

at the view, eagerly 

hoping something will 

pull me out of this slump

i'm in.

But all that is before me

is less than inspiring, 

historical yes, but only

in the past. That which I

see is granit and marble,

cold to the touch, utterly

depressing to the eyes

this is my quiet place.

I feel the wind on my

neck, it kisses softly

caring the warm breath

of summer, smelling of roses,

it reminds me of home,

and so in my head 

thats where 

i go.