Home, Made; A Poet's Pilgrimage through the South Downs Way

Home, Made

A Poet’s Pilgrimage through the South Downs Way

by Heather Pearson

Home, Made

‘Home, Made: A Poet’s Pilgrimage through the South Downs Way’ is a set of six poems funded by the National Trust & Writing our Legacy for their ‘Changing Chalk’ Partnership.

Led by the National Trust, Changing Chalk is a landscape-scale partnership connecting nature, people & heritage to the South Downs, Sussex, England.

As part of the partnership, National Trust worked with Writing our Legacy to offer bursaries for ethnically diverse people inviting them to respond creatively to their connection with the Downs. After receiving the bursary, I wrote ‘Home, Made’.

The work was exhibited as part of the ‘Artist Open Houses’ at Brighton Festival in 2024 & performed at Writing our Legacy’s ‘Changing Chalk’ Celebration Day in 2025.

The entire project is available to read for free below.

The Valley.

(at Devil’s Dyke, Brighton; The South Downs)

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.

The River.

(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 Winter,

time stretched into darkness,

cold, still, and stagnant…

whilst inside me,

life is spilling, eager to emerge.

just like The River Itchen

I am close to burst;

desperate to surge forward

into unchartered waters,

to make my mark

on the world.

*

so many seasons have 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 it to go.

or else, release me entirely—

let me 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 beginning to rise,

and with it, inching over the horizon,

this new life,

now to be mine.

The Cliff.

(at Seven Sisters; The South Downs)

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 am out of my depth;

placed on a knife’s edge

at the precipice of The Cliff.

*

brazen, I believed

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

gentle blooms

disintegrating 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.

The Forest.

(at Friston Forest; The South Downs)

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.

The Hill.

(at Southwick Hill; The South Downs)

I am learning with the deepest roots

come the greatest heights;

and that a humble knowledge

of the darkness

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 ever 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 that afternoon;

and I will meet you there.

The Well.

(at The Holy Well; Eastbourne, The South Downs)