Why should I take your time br describing in loving detail br the day so many years ago br when I smelt the air on a cliff-top – br sunlight, stubby wind-blown salt flowers, br still glitter of the sea, etc – br and knew freedom, liberation, br the blessing of landscape, br the magic of perspective… br all in the unfamiliar, so innocent, cliff-top air br that touched immortal on the cheek…? br br I guess it’s like an expensive gift that you give br without unwrapping its elaborate protection; br inside, something both banal, and magical: br br not the memory; but the memory br of being, just being; just being a child; br when the world spoke of itself br in every magic detail, unwrapped itself and br with so much to say… br br the magic of memory; being, not quite forgot; br offered to you, not wrapped by me, br (watching your face as you open it…) br but, from yourself?br br Michael Shepherdbr br