An evening meditation in prose

In the wildflower meadows of Yorkshire, time seems to loosen its grip. Buttercups gleam like drops of gold across the grass, and daisies stretch upward as though in prayer. The air is alive with the sweetness of clover and thyme, and the evening light settles gently on the Dale until the whole place feels hallowed.

There are no chapel walls here, no bells, no organ hymns, yet the meadow becomes a sanctuary. The wind through the grass sings its own liturgy, the river’s murmur rises like psalms, and every petal turns its face toward the light in quiet adoration.

Here, the love of the Divine is not spoken so much as known — breathed in with the heather, felt in the stillness, glimpsed in the endless horizon. The Dale whispers that God is present: not confined, not predictable, but alive and untamed, as free as the land itself.