From Whinny Hill
A
potent pathway runs along the rim,
trodden
since unlettered times
beyond
the consciousness of man
by feet
that understood the power of paths.
But now
the roads on lower land prevail
and
these high places no longer stimulate
the stagnant
soul and stultified imagination.
Still, we
whose heads have always been in clouds
can
gaze on sights unknown to those
whose
tiny minds are there below,
amongst
the tiny works of men:
the houses,
villages and fields,
where
their inconsequential voices
could
never pierce the wildness of the wind.
Only in
high places do we truly know
the sacredness
of space.
Only
here, above the daily clamour,
can we
stand and listen
to the
turning of the earth,
hear
the wisdom that the birds impart
and
feel the pull of ageless intimacies
from
beneath the barrow’s mound
that
speak in voices sorrowful but proud:
“When we had life,
the world was quieter.
We had the time and
space to stop
and stand here on
this winsome ridge
to view a world that
we had not created.
Here the wolf could
roam
and find a peaceful
sanctuary
amongst the shadows
of the trees.
Then we shared with
wolves,
and all the creatures
of the woods,
the bounty that
renewed with every year.
In those days giants walked
the earth
and though we did not
know them,
we felt their
presence
and could see their
works,
for our eyes were
open then,
instead of filled
with dirt,
or closed, as yours
are now,
to all the wonders of
the world.”
The
path is little-trodden now,
except
by those who need to seek
the
solace of an open mind,
clear
of all the affectations
that
crowd our every waking hour
and
chase us even
into
the haunted depths of sleep.
Perhaps
I’ll meet you on the pathway,
coming
either from the rising sun
or from
the shadow regions of the moon,
and we
will stop and gaze at one another,
as if
the two of us
each
had met a ghost.
