I am a Downsman lost on friendly hills,
snagged in gorse and fretting:
how did I arrive, here,
in this exacting valley?
Maybe my map was wrong,
a route’s turn missed, the
lucky lightning stone lost
on a hurried contour.
Maybe the soft curves of the hard
chalk lead inevitably
here, to a place that was aways mine.
Soon strangers will come,
carry me over the unwanted hill,
give me a child’s help negotiating
stiles and fences towards
familiar paths. Then I hope for
my own full steps, flowing:
down past Thunderbarrow, Rest and be Thankful
and the Crooked Moon hedge.
But for now, see
the sunlight on the black branches:
it is early yet, and the paths are generous.
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[...] a poem. Drank tea. Felt like I was getting my life [...]
That’s stunning – it has quite an echo. A little of William Blake’s “Lost traveller’s dream under the hill” – but expanded…
Yes, I like this – now I’ve had a chance to read it properly after escaping the deluge of Galician rain.
It reminds me of Jeremy Hooker – don’t know if you know this writer, born in Winchester area I think (though lived in Wales) – chalkland, too…
Thanks SW, I’ll give Hooker a try.
To be honest I was just processing my health angst and general sorry-for-myself-ness, though on reflection I quite like the result. If I put the work in I think I could turn it into a sonnet.
Hooker is one of those quiet, little known poets – who is absolutely fantastic. I have an idea you would really like him. I corresponded with him once for a short while. Read his ‘Welsh Journal’ – not poetry, but an amazing autobiographical memoir of his time in Wales.
I’ve ordered a big collection. Cheers.
[...] having been corrected, polished and generally futzed with – though I have left the original raw version on the blog. It was mainly about trying to visualise an end to my walking journey – and end [...]