HOME, MADE;

A POET’S PILGRIMAGE THROUGH THE SOUTH DOWNS WAY

Home, Made; A Poet’s Pilgrimage through the South Downs Way is a poetry cycle funded by the National Trust & Writing our Legacy for Changing Chalk.

Traversing both a physical & psycho-spiritual landscape, six locations in the South Downs become six psychological landmarks of blossoming spiritual growth and personal rebirth.

The cycle paves a journey from separation to belonging, force to flow, ego to soul—ultimately, encouraging readers to see nature as both an internal and external force, and to feel the power of nature to heal, inspire, and create meaning.

Home, Made; A Poet’s Pilgrimage Through The South Downs Way

  1. The Valley (Mother)

  2. The River (Ego)

  3. The Cliff (Separation)

  4. The Forest (Death)

  5. The Hill (Spirit)

  6. The Well (Rebirth)

The Valley (Mother)

the day I arrive

is overcast and dry,

late July.

I carry my roots in a plant pot.

tender, tendrils frayed;

unearthed from a ground

that could not nurture me. 

I hold them close,

in search of a place to call home.

and so begins my pilgrimage

through the South Downs Way.

first stop, Devil’s Dyke;

The Valley.

its mouth open wide,

I enter the middle path

straight into its depths.

here,

a strange safety arises.

inside your tall green walls,

I am held.

like a small seed,

I have resolve

to fill the space,

grow into something great.

the ground beneath me speaks:

follow the path,

home is made

where love can grow. 

feeling you by my side, now,

I pick up the pace.

soon enough, 

I pass the first threshold: a gate opened,

a path up. 

trees shelter me as I race up the steps,

no pause for breath.

and then—a clearing in the sky, 

clouds dissolve into bursts of blue;

a magnificent landscape of valleys and hills

ebbs and flows into view. 

on top of the world, and yet,

an insignificant speck 

from your perspective. 

but still, I am held

like one of your own,

hands and feet intertwined

in soft grass,

so I set down the plant pot,

reach for my roots,

and I make home. 

 (at Devil’s Dyke, Brighton;

The South Downs)

The River (Ego)

 (at The River Itchen, Winchester;

The South Downs)

on this rainy riverbed in Winchester,

I will not rest.

I resent the slow, muddy bog of Wintertime,

stretched into darkness,

cold, still, stagnant…

whilst inside me,

life spills, eager to emerge.

just like The River Itchen

I am close to burst; desperate to surge 

forward into unchartered waters, 

make my mark on the world.

so many seasons passed

since I was a small seed.

home-grown comfort nourishes me,

sweet fruit has arrived, ripe;

but now languishes in my hands—

I demand more.

the hunger gnaws at me

and I don’t want to wait,

not for another cycle to spin fate—

I want to rule the wheel of life,

straddle it like an old mill over water,

direct the cascading flow where I want to go.

or else, release me completely—

dive into this wild current,

free of any restraint.

on this misty morning in February, 

I am impatient.

I will not rest;

not until I see the sun begin to rise,

and with it, inching over the horizon,

this new life,

now to be mine.

The Cliff (Separation)

no matter how hard I try, 

I cannot reach you.

at Seven Sisters, cruel winds 

are insistent; they ring in my ears,

whispering fear

of failure,

you’ll never make it. 

I was brazen. believing

I could overcome you;

but now no forgiving sea

will catch my leap of faith. 

because I have tried so hard to go against you,

like an abrupt force, like a gale;

but now I know

I can only move as fast 

as the grass on your ground. 

but petulant, I stamped out the seeds;

let a garden grow rife with weeds—

now, gentle blooms disintegrate

like grains of sand

into stone, cold 

and bare

as bone. 

no warmth reaches me on this day;

I am alone. 

except for the chalk 

of The Cliff,

a canvas of white in immense,

illuminating light—

here I will find the strength 

for redemption.

a new page

I will begin to write. 

(at Seven Sisters;

The South Downs)

The Forest (Death)

I have been felled, 

cut from the root; 

yet the forest floor holds me

still. 

and the soil is soft, 

a sweet whisper to slumber. 

I rest here. 

above, a cool canopy of trees; 

light cannot reach me. 

I am at home in the dark. 

so, I retreat,

return to source; 

curl into myself, 

then unfurl without force. 

spiral deeper

into the heart of the earth,

and there, 

light a hearth, 

let the warmth in again. 

in the mulch, 

I am free.

the earth lets me be.

amidst the simplicity of the soil 

and its merciful embrace,

I am redeemed. 

(at Friston Forest;

The South Downs)

The Hill (Spirit)

I am learning

with the deepest roots

come the greatest heights;

and with a humble knowledge 

of darkness, I can create

the most brilliant light. 

I am learning

that to scale The Hill

I need to preserve my peace;

keep the reserves 

close to me;

resist the urge to rush, and trust 

that when the earth blooms, 

so will I, too.

it has been years since I first met you.

I have grown from seed, to fruit, 

to rot, 

to compost,

and now I am ready to grow again,

meet you at your level.

knowing I can only be as great as you

is the most humbling and inspiring truth.

and so, 

when I walk up The Hill that afternoon, 

the sky will sing bold and blue,

two magpies dance free in the air—

I will walk up The Hill;

and I will meet you there. 

(at Southwick Hill;

The South Downs)

The Well (Rebirth)

I come to you in quiet 

with the gentle strength

of a woman reborn. 

no fanfare, just a sea breeze; only the

marsh marigolds, bright and innocent, 

accompany me.

here, I land.

slow and steady, 

from bud to bloom,

your solid ground has restored me to health;

and I have learned to be a reliable steward of the land, 

and the path that I walk.

years ago, you told me

home is made where love can grow

and I tread ground

with half-formed hagstones,

broken skin, broken heart; 

but through the cracks

I now let in the light,

let in the love.

so when I arrive at The Holy Well,

I offer myself.

let me be 

the open vessel,

let you be

the source. 

(at The Holy Well; Eastbourne,

The South Downs)