Today's poet

Coronach


He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!


Sir Walter Scott

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Geography Lesson
Brian Pattern

Our teacher told us one day he would leave
And sail across a warm blue sea
To places he had only known from maps,
And all his life had longed to be.
The house he lived in was narrow and grey
But in his mind’s eye he could see
Sweet-scented jasmine clinging to the walls,
And green leaves burning on an orange tree.
He spoke of the lands he longed to visit,
Where it was never drab or cold.
I couldn’t understand why he never left,
And shook off the school’s stranglehold.
Then halfway through his final term
He took ill and never returned.
He never got to that place on the map
Where the green leaves of the orange trees burned.
The maps were redrawn on the classroom wall;
His name forgotten, he faded away.
But a lesson he never knew he taught
Is with me to this day.
I travel to where the green leaves burn,
To where the ocean’s glass-clear and blue,
To places our teacher taught me to love –
And which he never knew.

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Love this! There's a lesson for us all in here. It reminds me of a guy I knew at work. he always talked of his retirement, couldnt wait, it was all planned out. He was a real nice fella, nice as you could meet. died of an anurism, aged 57, three years from retirement. Same as my sister as it happens. She was due to retire this summer, worked hard all her teaching career, loved by all of her pupils, past and present. Died last November, aged 56. Cheers. Love it!! I might even print it and stick it on my fridge... :thumbup:

Terra Incognita

I have scaled unknown ridges and cliffs,
only to abseil downward, dropping inside
the holes of caves where stalagmites pierced

the floors of darkened rooms. I have found
mines deep within the crevices of sleeping
mountains, waded in underground springs

of manatees, minerals, sand. I have upturned
rocks, searched the roots of trees in acres
of eclipsed valleys, hiked along shores,

lakes, becks, running streams.
Once I stopped for days at a single hillside,
made a bed inside, woke to the sound

of falcons and the distant morning dove,
the sun glinting off pines that reached
upwards with outstretched hands.

But do not tell me that love makes us into fools.
I know the shadows that pause within the folds
of these hills, still miles from where I stand.

I've heard the secrets farmers keep, irrigation
and rotating crops, when to move in, when to start a fire.
I've seen the red skies. I know the warning of dawn.

I know too that frozen waters can flow,
can once again flow, how fields will blaze
anew, if touched by the sun.

Blame me, but I will open the curtains.
After all, I have lived here for a million years
and am long past finding my way home.

Andrea Wiztke Slot

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Coronach


He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!


Sir Walter Scott

---

Gulp! A bit sad that one Alf. Suitably lamenting, I suppose that's the point!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by that_fjell_guy

Love this! There's a lesson for us all in here. It reminds me of a guy I knew at work. he always talked of his retirement, couldnt wait, it was all planned out. He was a real nice fella, nice as you could meet. died of an anurism, aged 57, three years from retirement. Same as my sister as it happens. She was due to retire this summer, worked hard all her teaching career, loved by all of her pupils, past and present. Died last November, aged 56. Cheers. Love it!! I might even print it and stick it on my fridge... :thumbup:

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I am glad you enjoyed that fell guy and what a moving story you tell about your sister, humbling .

[QUOTE=Alf;487246]Coronach


He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font, reappearing,
From the rain-drops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!





very powerful that alf, often we associate nature and being out in the elements with the cycle of life yet in that last verse scott implies that even the dew on the mountains is finite...melancholy but beautiful

Hes

brilliant choice ...loved ...

But do not tell me that love makes us into fools.
I know the shadows that pause within the folds
of these hills, still miles from where I stand.

and....

Blame me, but I will open the curtains.
After all, I have lived here for a million years
and am long past finding my way home.

He remebers forgotten beauty

by: William Butler Yeats

WHEN my arms wrap you round I press
My heart upon the loveliness
That has long faded from the world;
The jewelled crowns that kings have hurled
In shadowy pools, when armies fled;
The love-tales wrought with silken thread
By dreaming ladies upon cloth
That has made fat the murderous moth;
The roses that of old time were Woven
by ladies in their hair,
The dew-cold lilies ladies bore
Through many a sacred corridor
Where such grey clouds of incense rose
That only God's eyes did not close:
For that pale breast and lingering hand
Come from a more dream-heavy land,
A more dream-heavy hour than this;
And when you sigh from kiss to kiss
I hear white Beauty sighing, too,
For hours when all must fade like dew,
But flame on flame, and deep on deep,
Throne over throne where in half sleep,
Their swords upon their iron knees,
Brood her high lonely mysteries

very moving....

http://www.bbc.co.uk/learningzone/clips/13456.html

SOUNDS OF THE DAY

When a clatter came,
It was horses crossing the ford.
When the air creaked, it was
A lapwing seeing us off the premises
Of its private marsh. A snuffling puff
Ten yards from the boat was the tide blocking,
Unblocking a hole in a rock.
When the black drums rolled, it was water
Falling sixty feet into itself.

When the door
Scraped shut, it was the end
Of all the sounds there are.

You left me
Beside the quietest fire in the world.

I thought I was hurt in my pride only,
Forgetting that,
When you plunge your hand in freezing water,
You feel
A bangle of ice around your wrist
Before the whole hand goes numb.

Norman Maccaig

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

SOUNDS OF THE DAY

When a clatter came,
It was horses crossing the ford.
When the air creaked, it was
A lapwing seeing us off the premises
Of its private marsh. A snuffling puff
Ten yards from the boat was the tide blocking,
Unblocking a hole in a rock.
When the black drums rolled, it was water
Falling sixty feet into itself.

When the door
Scraped shut, it was the end
Of all the sounds there are.

You left me
Beside the quietest fire in the world.

I thought I was hurt in my pride only,
Forgetting that,
When you plunge your hand in freezing water,
You feel
A bangle of ice around your wrist
Before the whole hand goes numb.

Norman Maccaig

---

Ooooo lovely that Mossy, the few lines are very visceral and dark :-)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Ooooo lovely that Mossy, the few lines are very visceral and dark :-)

---

Exactly! Night, night Freckle.

Great choice Mossy. I love the fact that MacCaig not only wrote beautiful, lyrical poems about wildlife but also heart rending works on love and loss. I am only dipping into this thread now and then (the stuff of life is getting in the way somewhat) but its always a treat when I do.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mossdog

SOUNDS OF THE DAY

When a clatter came,
It was horses crossing the ford.
When the air creaked, it was
A lapwing seeing us off the premises
Of its private marsh. A snuffling puff
Ten yards from the boat was the tide blocking,
Unblocking a hole in a rock.
When the black drums rolled, it was water
Falling sixty feet into itself.

When the door
Scraped shut, it was the end
Of all the sounds there are.

You left me
Beside the quietest fire in the world.

I thought I was hurt in my pride only,
Forgetting that,
When you plunge your hand in freezing water,
You feel
A bangle of ice around your wrist
Before the whole hand goes numb.

Norman Maccaig

---

From the Telephone

Out of the dark cup
Your voice broke like a flower.
It trembled, swaying on its taut stem.
The caress in its touch
Made my eyes close.

Florence Ripley Mastin

The Sunflowers

Come with me
into the field of sunflowers.
Their faces are burnished disks,
their dry spines

creak like ship masts,
their green leaves,
so heavy and many,
fill all day with the sticky

sugars of the sun.
Come with me
to visit the sunflowers,
they are shy

but want to be friends;
they have wonderful stories
of when they were young -
the important weather,

the wandering crows.
Don't be afraid
to ask them questions!
Their bright faces,

which follow the sun,
will listen, and all
those rows of seeds -
each one a new life!

hope for a deeper acquaintance;
each of them, though it stands
in a crowd of many,
like a separate universe,

is lonely, the long work
of turning their lives
into a celebration
is not easy. Come

and let us talk with those modest faces,
the simple garments of leaves,
the coarse roots in the earth
so uprightly burning.

Mary Oliver

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

The Sunflowers

Come with me
into the field of sunflowers.
Their faces are burnished disks,
their dry spines

creak like ship masts,
their green leaves,
so heavy and many,
fill all day with the sticky

sugars of the sun.
Come with me
to visit the sunflowers,
they are shy

but want to be friends;
they have wonderful stories
of when they were young -
the important weather,

the wandering crows.
Don't be afraid
to ask them questions!
Their bright faces,

which follow the sun,
will listen, and all
those rows of seeds -
each one a new life!

hope for a deeper acquaintance;
each of them, though it stands
in a crowd of many,
like a separate universe,

is lonely, the long work
of turning their lives
into a celebration
is not easy. Come

and let us talk with those modest faces,
the simple garments of leaves,
the coarse roots in the earth
so uprightly burning.

Mary Oliver

---

Wonderful choice Alf. Let's hope the 'summer' improves so that it's very apposite too!

Let's Live Suddenly Without Thinking


let’s live suddenly without thinking

under honest trees,
a stream
does.the brain of cleverly-crinkling
-water pursues the angry dream
of the shore. By midnight,
a moon
scratches the skin of the organised hills

an edged nothing begins to prune

let’s live like the light that kills
and let’s as silence,
because Whirl’s after all:
(after me)love,and after you.
I occasionally feel vague how
vague idon’t know tenuous Now-
spears and The Then-arrows making do
our mouths something red,something tall

E. E. Cummings

Clive James' latest poem about his illness. He's always been brilliant...


It may not come to this, but if I should
Fail to survive this year of feebleness
Which irks me so and may have killed for good
Whatever gift I had for quick success -
For I could talk an hour alone on stage
And mostly make it up along the way,
But now when I compose a single page
Of double-spaced it takes me half the day -
If I, that is, should finally succumb
To these infirmities I'm slow to learn
The names of lest my brain be rendered numb
With boredom even as I toss and turn,
Then send my ashes home, where they can fall
In their own sweet time from the harbour wall.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Mark Smith

Clive James' latest poem about his illness. He's always been brilliant...


It may not come to this, but if I should
Fail to survive this year of feebleness
Which irks me so and may have killed for good
Whatever gift I had for quick success -
For I could talk an hour alone on stage
And mostly make it up along the way,
But now when I compose a single page
Of double-spaced it takes me half the day -
If I, that is, should finally succumb
To these infirmities I'm slow to learn
The names of lest my brain be rendered numb
With boredom even as I toss and turn,
Then send my ashes home, where they can fall
In their own sweet time from the harbour wall.

---

I had no idea that he was ill ...it makes it even more poignant to read, it made me think of the huge losses involved for once articulate people in the face of dementia (tho I read he has cancer)...thank you for posting

That's sad news about Clive James illness. Here's one he wrote in 2009.



Beachmaster

Scanning the face of a crestfallen wave
He sees his life collapsing to a close,
A foaming comber racing to its grave.
But after that one, there are all of those:

The ranks of the unbroken, the young men
Completely green, queuing to take their turn
To die so that the sea might live again.
That much it took him all his life to learn.

Propped on her elbow in the burning sand,
The latest Miss Australia views it all
As one vast courtship. With a loving hand
She strokes her thigh as one by one they fall,

Those high walls in the water. Look at her,
But shade your sad glance carefully, old man –
For she will never see you as you were,
A long way out, before the end began.

Clive James

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

That's sad news about Clive James illness. Here's one he wrote in 2009.



Beachmaster

Scanning the face of a crestfallen wave
He sees his life collapsing to a close,
A foaming comber racing to its grave.
But after that one, there are all of those:

The ranks of the unbroken, the young men
Completely green, queuing to take their turn
To die so that the sea might live again.
That much it took him all his life to learn.

Propped on her elbow in the burning sand,
The latest Miss Australia views it all
As one vast courtship. With a loving hand
She strokes her thigh as one by one they fall,

Those high walls in the water. Look at her,
But shade your sad glance carefully, old man –
For she will never see you as you were,
A long way out, before the end began.

Clive James

---

Breathtakingly beautiful...think i may have to familiarise myself more with his work

here is an excerpt from clive james "vertical envelopment" a rather log but brilliant poem...


Taking the piss out of my catheter,
The near-full plastic bag bulks on my calf
As I push my I.V. tower through Addenbrooke’s
Like an Airborne soldier heading for D-day
Down the longest corridor in England.
Each man his own mule. Look at all this stuff.
Pipes, tubes, air bottles. Some of us have wheels.
Humping our gear, we’re bare-arsed warriors
Dressed to strike fear into the enemy,
But someone fires a flare. Mission aborted.
On the airfield, the chattering Dakotas
Have fallen silent. Jump postponed again.
Stay as you are. Keep your equipment on.
When cloud and wind are OK in the drop zone
We hit the sky and leap into the dark.
Meanwhile just hunker down and get some sleep.
Look on the bright side. Everyone’s still here.

http://www.clivejames.com/poems/clive/vertical

Really wish I was in London tonight. There is going to be a rain of poems at the South Bank as part of poetry parnassus. Good old Simon Armitage is helping to organise the event.

http://ticketing.southbankcentre.co....-poems-1000249

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

here is an excerpt from clive james "vertical envelopment" a rather log but brilliant poem...


Taking the piss out of my catheter,
The near-full plastic bag bulks on my calf
As I push my I.V. tower through Addenbrooke’s
Like an Airborne soldier heading for D-day
Down the longest corridor in England.
Each man his own mule. Look at all this stuff.
Pipes, tubes, air bottles. Some of us have wheels.
Humping our gear, we’re bare-arsed warriors
Dressed to strike fear into the enemy,
But someone fires a flare. Mission aborted.
On the airfield, the chattering Dakotas
Have fallen silent. Jump postponed again.
Stay as you are. Keep your equipment on.
When cloud and wind are OK in the drop zone
We hit the sky and leap into the dark.
Meanwhile just hunker down and get some sleep.
Look on the bright side. Everyone’s still here.

http://www.clivejames.com/poems/clive/vertical

---

Just read the full version, as you say freckle, brilliant, thanks:)

Whizz pop!
I forget time
I forget responsibility
For the troubadour
considers us mere mortals
(fell) poets

Simon Armitage's book "Walking Home" is finally out... a riveting read so far!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stevefoster

Just read the full version, as you say freckle, brilliant, thanks:)

---

Glad you liked it steve, its very poignant but so well observed, hope you are well

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

Really wish I was in London tonight. There is going to be a rain of poems at the South Bank as part of poetry parnassus. Good old Simon Armitage is helping to organise the event.

http://ticketing.southbankcentre.co....-poems-1000249

---

sounded brilliant!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Whizz pop!
I forget time
I forget responsibility
For the troubadour
considers us mere mortals
(fell) poets

Simon Armitage's book "Walking Home" is finally out... a riveting read so far!

---

So did you get a mention freckle ? I thought that would be the first bit you turned to :D

Bell Heather

People make songs about your big cousin
Extravagantly sprawled over mountain after mountain
They tear him up and he goes off to England
On the bumpers of cars, on shiny radiators.

But you're more beautiful and you blossom first,
In square feet and raggedy circles.
Your blue travels a hundred yards
That are a main road for bees.

If I were an adder, I’d choose you
For my royal palace. My sliding tongue
Would savour the thin scent
Of your boudoirs and banqueting halls.

A modest immodesty is a good thing,
Like blaze of blue on a rock face.
I’ll try it myself. Will the bees come,
The wild bees, with their white noses?

Norman MacCaig

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

Glad you liked it steve, its very poignant but so well observed, hope you are well

---

I'm well marra, hope you are too.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

So did you get a mention freckle ? I thought that would be the first bit you turned to :D

---

We did indeed and at one point are described as "clean and beautiful"...post fell running that is! I realise I may be easily pleased but it was a thrill to be acknowledged and reading the book brought back some very happy memories...i would recommend it for non narcissistic reasons too, so far its a warm, funny and reflective piece about the challenge of walking the penine route and I think a lot of forumites with a love of the hills might identify with his narrative.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

Bell Heather

People make songs about your big cousin
Extravagantly sprawled over mountain after mountain
They tear him up and he goes off to England
On the bumpers of cars, on shiny radiators.

But you're more beautiful and you blossom first,
In square feet and raggedy circles.
Your blue travels a hundred yards
That are a main road for bees.

If I were an adder, I’d choose you
For my royal palace. My sliding tongue
Would savour the thin scent
Of your boudoirs and banqueting halls.

A modest immodesty is a good thing,
Like blaze of blue on a rock face.
I’ll try it myself. Will the bees come,
The wild bees, with their white noses?

Norman MacCaig

---

this is very "friday night" in its sumptiousness...i really must by some MacCaig...off to Amazon!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by freckle

We did indeed and at one point are described as "clean and beautiful"...post fell running that is! I realise I may be easily pleased but it was a thrill to be acknowledged and reading the book brought back some very happy memories...i would recommend it for non narcissistic reasons too, so far its a warm, funny and reflective piece about the challenge of walking the penine route and I think a lot of forumites with a love of the hills might identify with his narrative.

---

"Armitage also movingly recounted his experience of scary moments lost on foggy uplands, and of his enjoyment in meeting strangers along the way, especially four joggers whom he thankfully encountered when he was muddled on Cross Fell, the summit of the Pennines at 893m (2930ft) and allegedly the home of wind demons. They - the joggers not the demons - guided him back to civilisation. And so the walk became less about a poet in the landscape and more about the people he encountered."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/the-nor...d-walking-home

Well done fell poets, saving Simon like that :cool: but calling you joggers :thunbdown:

ha ha ha...I reckon he was misquoted by the Guardian hack! Its ok though, in the book he calls us fellrunners and I quote "and suddenly remembering a very loose arrangement concerning four fell-runners agreeing to meet me on the way to Dufton, I go running towards them, bounding along the stone slabs. Receiving them like long-lost friends I give one of them a big hug, the nearest one, not even one of the women but one of the slightly surprised men" That's our HHH!

Like Freckle, I'm probably easily pleased too but it is kind of nice to be remembered and also to relive the day a bit. It was such a good day too! I don't think I quite realised how desperate he had become in the fog and how pleased he was to see us, although he did tell us at the time, I thought he was being nice.:)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

"Armitage also movingly recounted his experience of scary moments lost on foggy uplands, and of his enjoyment in meeting strangers along the way, especially four joggers whom he thankfully encountered when he was muddled on Cross Fell, the summit of the Pennines at 893m (2930ft) and allegedly the home of wind demons. They - the joggers not the demons - guided him back to civilisation. And so the walk became less about a poet in the landscape and more about the people he encountered."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/the-nor...d-walking-home

Well done fell poets, saving Simon like that :cool: but calling you joggers :thunbdown:

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

ha ha ha...I reckon he was misquoted by the Guardian hack! Its ok though, in the book he calls us fellrunners and I quote "and suddenly remembering a very loose arrangement concerning four fell-runners agreeing to meet me on the way to Dufton, I go running towards them, bounding along the stone slabs. Receiving them like long-lost friends I give one of them a big hug, the nearest one, not even one of the women but one of the slightly surprised men" That's our HHH!

Like Freckle, I'm probably easily pleased too but it is kind of nice to be remembered and also to relive the day a bit. It was such a good day too! I don't think I quite realised how desperate he had become in the fog and how pleased he was to see us, although he did tell us at the time, I thought he was being nice.:)

---

Indeed! I think it is quite possibly the only time in his fell running career that HHH will be referred to as a "jogger"....such happy times, barry young is asking us to organise another fell poets event...some day ...some day!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Indeed! I think it is quite possibly the only time in his fell running career that HHH will be referred to as a "jogger"....such happy times, barry young is asking us to organise another fell poets event...some day ...some day!

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Change of name required. HTJ Harry the Jogger, or HTHJ Harry the Howgill Jogger, HHHJ, JHHH, whatever. I do like the idea of the BOFRA champs being won (again) by a jogging fell poet!

perhaps we should look after our little musings...listen to the man him self

The Dead Sea Poems
Simon Armitage


And I was travelling lightly, barefoot
over bedrock, then through lands that were stitched
with breadplant and camomile. Or was it
burdock. For a living I was driving
a river of goats towards clean water,
when one of the herd cut loose to a cave
on the skyline. To flush it out, I shaped
a sling from a length of cotton bandage,
or was it a blanket, then launched a rock
at the target, which let out a racket -
the tell-tale sound of man-made objects.
Inside the cave like a set of skittles
stood a dozen caskets, and each one gasped -
a little theatrically perhaps -
when opened, then gave out a breath of musk
and pollen, and reaching down through cool sand
I found poems written in my own hand.
Being greatly in need of food and clothing,
and out of pockets, I let the lot go
for twelve times nothing, but saw them again
this spring, on public display, out of reach
under infra-red and ultra-sonic,
apparently worth an absolute packet.
Knowing now the price of my early art
I have gone some way towards taking it all
to heart, by bearing it all in mind, like
praying, saying it over and over
at night, by singing the whole of the work
to myself, every page of that innocent,
everyday, effortless verse, of which this
is the first

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Hes

ha ha ha...I reckon he was misquoted by the Guardian hack! Its ok though, in the book he calls us fellrunners and I quote "and suddenly remembering a very loose arrangement concerning four fell-runners agreeing to meet me on the way to Dufton, I go running towards them, bounding along the stone slabs. Receiving them like long-lost friends I give one of them a big hug, the nearest one, not even one of the women but one of the slightly surprised men" That's our HHH!

Like Freckle, I'm probably easily pleased too but it is kind of nice to be remembered and also to relive the day a bit. It was such a good day too! I don't think I quite realised how desperate he had become in the fog and how pleased he was to see us, although he did tell us at the time, I thought he was being nice.:)

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It is a great momento from a really lovely day. I'd not realised either quite what a time he'd had on Cross Fell. I just presumed he welcomed everyone he met in that way!

Quote:

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Originally Posted by freckle

Indeed! I think it is quite possibly the only time in his fell running career that HHH will be referred to as a "jogger"....such happy times, barry young is asking us to organise another fell poets event...some day ...some day!

---

Funnily enough I was asked on Friday what we were planning to do next by someone who came to see him at Dufton.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Alf

"Armitage also movingly recounted his experience of scary moments lost on foggy uplands, and of his enjoyment in meeting strangers along the way, especially four joggers whom he thankfully encountered when he was muddled on Cross Fell, the summit of the Pennines at 893m (2930ft) and allegedly the home of wind demons. They - the joggers not the demons - guided him back to civilisation. And so the walk became less about a poet in the landscape and more about the people he encountered."

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/the-nor...d-walking-home

Well done fell poets, saving Simon like that :cool: but calling you joggers :thunbdown:

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What a shame they've closed the comments section on that page. I could have put then straight! :-)