Holly Williams-Richards

i was born in the shadow of leckhamton hill, so was my mother and mother’s mother. 

the hill lies to the south of cheltenham, i’ve climbed it more times than i could count. From its peak i can see the houses i’ve lived in, and the schools i’ve attended. i can watch my life play out across the town, my mother’s too and her mother's. 

my grandmother died in the shadow of the hill, my grandfather too, and in many ways my father also.

i was once given an analogy in which death was compared to a horizon. the analogy went along with a hand gesture, following a hand held close to your face and then back as far as its arm can stretch. 

as if it was bodily, of human. its not even of earth, of sea.

it was a conditional gift, beholden to duration and proximity. in the light allowing hours you may be able to regain your purchase but it will be lost again, an exchange between hemispheres. always equidistant from, my mirror. not an arm’s reach away, nor beneath my nose; that is a mocking. you are my fears compounded, a reflection; 5 years too late.

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