Today's poet

[Mossdog]

A deceit of lapwings

‘the false lapwynge, ful of trecherye’ Geoffrey Chaucer

Consider the shame of that name
even as they roller-coast over open skies,
over the secrets of ploughed fields,
keening and whooping to draw the farmhand on
away from their own open secret
nestled in its dark furrow.
See how she drags her uninjured wing
luring him from her little ones
as the boy with his bag counts his eggs,
and hatches in his mind
the money that will nestle in his purse.

Yet all over the down lands the skies are still thick
with the rush of their crossing, the thrum of their passing.

I know them by their secret names,
peewit, pie-wipe, chewit, tuefit,
the language of eggers and washmen and netters,
toppyup, peasiewheep, teewhuppo, thievnick,
telling their stories to tillers and ploughmen,
plivver, ticks-nicket, thievnig, peeweet.

And even now when a few come from nowhere
they are the sound of spring
a pied handful thrown against heaven,
the sky’s calligraphy.
They swoop and tumble for the madness of it,
and cry, wheezy and slurred,
soft and wild, joyful and grieving.

To lean on my spade
and open my heart to their wing music
and watch their looping sky-dance
and how they play with the wind,
is to want for nothing.

David Underdown

[Alf]

A deceit of lapwings

‘the false lapwynge, ful of trecherye’ Geoffrey Chaucer

Consider the shame of that name
even as they roller-coast over open skies,
over the secrets of ploughed fields,
keening and whooping to draw the farmhand on
away from their own open secret
nestled in its dark furrow.
See how she drags her uninjured wing
luring him from her little ones
as the boy with his bag counts his eggs,
and hatches in his mind
the money that will nestle in his purse.

Yet all over the down lands the skies are still thick
with the rush of their crossing, the thrum of their passing.

I know them by their secret names,
peewit, pie-wipe, chewit, tuefit,
the language of eggers and washmen and netters,
toppyup, peasiewheep, teewhuppo, thievnick,
telling their stories to tillers and ploughmen,
plivver, ticks-nicket, thievnig, peeweet.

And even now when a few come from nowhere
they are the sound of spring
a pied handful thrown against heaven,
the sky’s calligraphy.
They swoop and tumble for the madness of it,
and cry, wheezy and slurred,
soft and wild, joyful and grieving.

To lean on my spade
and open my heart to their wing music
and watch their looping sky-dance
and how they play with the wind,
is to want for nothing.

David Underdown

Great choice Mossy, really enjoyed reading that.

[Alf]

I'm off up the lakes tomorrow for a long weekend of walking and running and maybe getting wet .


What the Mountain Saw

They arrive by night, travel-stunned, and see nothing.
They sleep wrapped in pine-tang and the rush of waters.
The father is first awake. He clacks the shutters back
and a mountain squats square in the window, looking in.

It never leaves them, though it changes hour by hour,
twisting a scarf of cloud, or turning a hard profile
to the morning sun, or dissembling a sugar-pink haze.
However far they walk – and they walk, walk every day –

it's above them, a bit of beyond. Some snow hangs on
in shreds. This is a famous north face, and a killer.
Each day the father scans it with his old binoculars
for any hint of tracks, and never finds them.

So the holiday proceeds, in a series of snapshots.
Here, in mid-stride, he crests a rise, wife and child
at his boot-heels, tranced by their thud and the heat
and the insect hum. But the snow-face is no nearer.

Here, through veils of spruce, he breaks into a glade
possessed by pallid green-veined hellebores.
Or here, he brings the family, breathless, to its knees
before one icicle-white wild crocus. Here is the lake

he finds them, like a souvenir, round and still
enough to hold the mountain, till a fish jumps.
In between, there are the hours he drives them on
for health. Stop too long, the sweat begins to chill.

'Breathe deep!' he cries, and strikes out higher
up a wide white stony stream-bed, tumbled and scoured
by the spring-melt, strewn with tree-trunks, torn
and bleached, and a few tiny tough mauve flowers

he can't name. He grips the child's hand as she teeters
on a plank beneath a waterfall. Its ice-breath touches them.
Their hair goes white with spray. Afterwards he will say
'This was our furthest point,' and sigh. As they drag home

footsore, the mountain shows itself again behind them,
in its pure dream of itself, untouched … Just as now
it looks in through the breakfast-room window when the child,
as if the strings that controlled her had fouled

and were jerked tight, has one of her turns. An egg
tips from its silver cup, a glass pirouettes to the edge
but has not yet smashed, the other guests have not
yet turned to stare, the father reaches for her but

is frozen. He will never reach her. Any moment now
the yolk will burst on crisply laundered linen. Soon
there will be splinters and tears. Behind it all he sees
the mountain at the window. If one could stand there

looking down, he thinks, this would all be very small.

Philip Gross

[Hes]

I love it Mossy! Thanks.

A deceit of lapwings

‘the false lapwynge, ful of trecherye’ Geoffrey Chaucer

Consider the shame of that name
even as they roller-coast over open skies,
over the secrets of ploughed fields,
keening and whooping to draw the farmhand on
away from their own open secret
nestled in its dark furrow.
See how she drags her uninjured wing
luring him from her little ones
as the boy with his bag counts his eggs,
and hatches in his mind
the money that will nestle in his purse.

Yet all over the down lands the skies are still thick
with the rush of their crossing, the thrum of their passing.

I know them by their secret names,
peewit, pie-wipe, chewit, tuefit,
the language of eggers and washmen and netters,
toppyup, peasiewheep, teewhuppo, thievnick,
telling their stories to tillers and ploughmen,
plivver, ticks-nicket, thievnig, peeweet.

And even now when a few come from nowhere
they are the sound of spring
a pied handful thrown against heaven,
the sky’s calligraphy.
They swoop and tumble for the madness of it,
and cry, wheezy and slurred,
soft and wild, joyful and grieving.

To lean on my spade
and open my heart to their wing music
and watch their looping sky-dance
and how they play with the wind,
is to want for nothing.

David Underdown

[Hes]

I really liked Alf's choice too and hope you have a great time in the lakes. I've just got back from the Fairfield Horseshoe and had a lovely time.

[Hes]

I really like this poem:

I'll Explain

It’s something you say at your peril.
It’s something you shouldn’t contain.
It’s a truth for the dark and a pillow.
Turn out the light and I’ll explain.

It’s the obvious truth of the morning
Bitten back as the sun turns to rain,
To the rain, to the dark, to the pillow.
Turn out the light and I’ll explain.

It’s what I was hoping to tell you.
It’s what I was hoping you’d guess.
It’s what I was hoping you wouldn’t guess
Or you wouldn’t mind.
It’s a kind
Of hopelessness.

It’s the hope that you hope at your peril.
It’s the hope that you fear to attain.
It’s the obvious truth of the evening.
Turn out the light and I’ll explain.

James Fenton

[XRunner]

Here is a poem for those who were doing the Bob Graham round:-

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory

As he defeated -- dying --
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!

(Emily DickInson)

[Alf]

Here is a poem for those who were doing the Bob Graham round:-

Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of victory

As he defeated -- dying --
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!

(Emily DickInson)

Stunning poem that XRunner and one I had not read before so thanks for posting it Very apt for DTs personal achievement and Stef's very bad luck.

[OneOffPoet]

Congrats to DT and Linda who i saw during leg 3 as i nav'd an attempt ten mins ahead. The sight of you all descending off Rossett Pike as we climbed Bowfell was remarkable and fantastic. In tribute to you, a repost of my first ever poem which i hope resonates that bit more.

Well done

OOP

PS - Stef, just a temporary setback, that's all. Hard luck and look forward to nailing it next time


GETTING ROUND

Thoughts of why have long since gone
Nine hours gone, fifteen to come
That early talk of pace and plans
Has given way to destiny's hands
As autopilot lifts a leg
Our hero is cajouled and fed
Whilst one by one the peaks slip past
Each heavier than the last

Wishes and hopes have never left
The others that won't see their beds
Guesswork and sustenance are made
Is he well up, or rain-delayed?
Cars are parked and necks are craned
Food on, chair out, mood up, tea made
Is that a rock, or is that him?
Today the two are kin

That time ago, this just a seed
Exploring which advice to heed
The first of many a slipperly slope
That faces all who dare to hope...
...and plan, and train and organise,
Obsess of bearings, schedule times
To study every inch of ground
And dream of getting round

[stevefoster]

Always worth a re-post OOP, love it.
I was with Andy (DT) on leg 3. Were you with Clive?