Mosedale. Summit Poetry.
Each time we go away walking I have tried to take an original piece of poetry with me to read on the summit of the main peak we are aiming for. Sometimes the wind and weather make it a hurried affair, sometimes it is just ourselves, sometimes others are about. I am lucky, my friends humour me and listen. Some they like, some not, that is always part of writing, and if we are writing we need to let others hear what we are saying. This time on the summit of Pillar we met a group of walkers from Scotland doing a similar route to us, we played leap-frog all the way round, exchanging walk ideas and notes on places to go as we crossed paths. They listened to this one, and responded with polite applause at the end, I was surprised as mostly you just get a funny look for even admitting you write poetry, let alone read it to a captive audience on the top of a mountain. So a quiet thank you to those fellow walkers and my friends who listen every time, sorry guys, I’ll keep writing! You in the blog world have a choice of course, but thanks for stopping by as well, enjoy your travels.
Hills rise on the swell,
crest and break,
roll away with new names.
Shedding wind and water
as they settle back into the land.
Lines drawn across the map,
running into one another. Places,
clinker built by Brimfull Beck,
Mosedale and Black Beck.
Each pulling together to hold fast
against the rain.
Contours dragged from an older world,
colder, left behind by the present,
only rocks as markers
to show where they have gone.