Talking to God

I climbed the mountain to speak to the god of the heather.

It approached from over the rise, whispering, rushing, twitching the purple flowers as it sailed past me.

I said my piece, and waited for an answer.

But all this god ever does is whisper its name, a name that can only be spoken in a language of moorland granite, honeybees and cold sun.

I mean nothing to it, and it gives me nothing accordingly. Any answers I get out here come from inside my own head.

But I do get them, nonetheless.

“Thanks,” I said, and climbed down.