The ray of light that broke the cloud departed.
I descend; the pace increasing, the pulse
steadying after the shock.
Sat in its shadow as evening draws a close on the chapter
I survey the soaring ramparts, searching for the return
that will never come.
A joyful ache takes away the pain as I sit
staring at the pieces, pondering the next move;
upward glances marking time
in the silent lullaby of Liathach’s lament.
Would you have chosen the same
if you had known? Blown by the winds
of change and dissatisfaction.
A little goat’s milk, perhaps
some hard boiled eggs.
Would you take direction
from those who would document
your campaign or refrain
from hot sauce and hot topics
to settle for some corned beef?
Would it be a release, a relief
to know of your ultimate consumption?
Sit me up, turn me loose
the proof is in the pudding.
Some recognition of the work that goes on behind the scenes to make a hill race happen. Last year’s Slioch Horseshoe features in the latest edition of The Fellrunner. One of many great photos documenting the race by Phil Hindell.
grazing on borrowed time
on this harrowed earth
in the early evening
son of the new season
after the fasting
splendour emergent
after the casting
chained to the cycle
rebirth growth and death
[1]
I was lost when you found me
standing next to the stairway
another path not yet discerned.
[2]
I remember the small girl spat upon by the roadside
the violence of men fearing innocence
little sense as my strength betrayed me.
[3]
It was fear that tore me
from what I had known
certain truths will cut the ties.
[4]
I remember the young woman in the headscarf
the flowers that she had bought
a lump in my throat as she handed them to me.
[5]
It was absence that drove me
toward a certain uncertainty
my rebellion finally overthrown.
[6]
I remember the old woman gentle in wisdom
her husband by the open door
as he sat and bade a silent welcome to me .
[7]
It is not wisdom and yet
I am content to sit and listen
birdsong beckoning in the silence.
It’s the same old faces at all the races
scribbling and scratching and watching
over their wards, who threaten to reciprocate
over cake and lashings of tea.
But those older, bolder and increasingly colder
guardians and shit-givers are left standing,
demanding aid whilst the promises fade
and a word of thanks remains a word.
A world of difference between doing and doing
but in the long run the sacrifice does not come
from those who toe the line and post a time
but those that would, and could, “but…”
It’s the same old faces at all the races
scribbling and scratching and watching
over their wards, who threaten to reciprocate
over cake and lashings of tea.
Sitting, trying to write
a poem that’s not too trite
– or full of literary pranks –
but the sum of all the thanks
is to draw a page of blanks.
Needless
to say
and so
I didn’t
It’s been a difficult few weeks.
Busy and not busy, beat and bored, striving and failing and striving again. Writing has taken a back seat to family and other matters, not least trying to regain some fitness. Words have eluded me; lines distant horizons that I keep cycling towards but never reach. At the moment it seems more important to watch and listen.
the jericho roads 