FROM WHINNY HILL

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.