Along an unkempt path, I wandered, passing crippled bushes arched in obedience to harsh winds, like lepers longing for a warming touch, a sun that seldom visits. Echoes of slate dwellings; long abandoned for the lust of progress, jigsaw the land with unsteady plates and hints of heather race the sea air in search of recognition. I was a stranger, trespassing In a wild place ravaged by spirited beasts that buffet and slash in relentless contempt of life’s will. A tenacious beauty clutches here, weaving between sleeping rocks, hugging crags and questioning fissures. It blooms towards the heavens in defiance of elementals. Long after, when chilled skin thawed and fingers searched for connection, part of me pondered why life persists at the edges, begging for the forgiveness of heat? Like the flowers of Easedale and its burdened trees, I too have stubborn roots but who do I reach for when my island is stormed? -Jason Conway