Originally Posted by
Mossdog
A Howgill Run
Bowderdale farmsteads,
hushed by grey, clamouring mist,
stare sullen, as a neighbour's scorn.
Baleful hounds raise alarm -
an interloper,
uninvited, synthetic,
antithesis to this world of flax, wool,
the earth and solitary secrets.
Laces tightened, straps pulled, watch glanced,
The Ritual begins.
Final check, and head for West Fell,
dirty snow prised of it's grip,
a gravel spewed trench,
an Eton mess of peat, soil, sheep piss.
Trudge forward,
seeking the metronome of pace-pulse,
an inner equilibrium of effort.
Predictably, doubts descend,
as winter midges,
sirens of despondency;
but I know better,
cultivated refusal to relent,
fuelled, at first, by petite conceits,
The squelch of sodden fell,
steeper ground,
the taunting begins,
the first skirmish with pain.
Yet, entranced by strands of yellowed grass,
a twist of peat,
a subtle shift!
That loosening of identity,
no longer runner,
an impress on the air,
an exhalation of warm, moist breath,
a studded imprint,
allowing the Moment to pull forward.
The Calf, unsuckled, rears,
mist shrouded, then passes;
and the Moment surges onwards,
shedding identity,
a fragmented wake,
black as minums,
singing the efflorescence of spirit
a quiet unity, achieved at last!
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