The
curve of the path
The
light on the hillside
The
pines upon the ridge against the sky
The
rush of wind & the sound that they make
The
breath in his body as he climbs.
His
song in the air
His
hope, his fear
His
muscles working hard at the hill
His
memory of having been here before
Childhood
like a flavour.
Sunlight,
early in the morning,
Daily
miracle of millenia
Blesses
his passing
To
the wide open hilltop
With
moor scent sweet upon the wind
The
view is as vast as his intention
To
recognise that ancient mind
To
reveal that world of adventure
&
if you're open to the mystery
You
never know what you'll find
Hills
that are gathered like shadows
Laid
hard & grey against the sky
Rounded
by unthinkable time
Speak
of a depth which we do not remember
Hills
are Relatives.
Fell
Sandstone
Ruin
of ancient mountains
Bare
flat platforms of stone
&
back there in the prehistoric solar
mangrove
Someone's
playing a trumpet on the river bank.
So
he comes all the way up from there
Through
a thousand forests
Some
revisited underground
Over
fossilized ripples in the sand
Revealed
by a later generation of waves.
Up
through the old pine woods
That
lead from the seacliffs to the hills
On
paths beneath gorse & buckthorn
&
winter bird swarms coiling
Like
smoke in the sky.
He
can hear the ancestors sing the songs of life
Living
presence within the land
We
dream of them
&
they dream of us, we say:
They
have their ways, live closer to the Root.
They
are leaving ghostly finger marks
Visionary
ripples, rings & cups
They
slowly pecked out the forms
Of
the mystery
Waiting
to be revealed.
Circles
& spirals of song
Like
fruit on the branches of a tree
Constellations
of pits
Covered
by lichens & leaves
Messages
from so long ago.
His
own fingers have found them
&
his wonder is a deep stone well
He
need no explanation
Of
their art, for it is art:
Maybe
the highest of all.
The
Ringses.
Perfection
in a moment of knowing
The
oneness of the ancient & the young,
The
immanence of the wave that carries us all along
Patterns:
a stone, a hill, a tree, a human hand.
Northumberland.
A version of this poem can be found in my book, The Art of Conversation with the Genius Loci .
Capall Bann Publications tell me that the new revised edition will be ready by next week.
Other news! You may also be interested to know that my long poem Buddha of the Carboniferous, has been sent to the printers this week.
