Whinney Hill, taken from Millington Wood.
I'm constantly intrigued by how poems form out of a single word or phrase. This one came from the phrase 'England itself is sacred' in a book I was reading.
England itself is sacred.
Worship
in the cathedral of the woods
for
England itself is sacred
to those
who bow their heads
before
the altars of the hills
and make
their solemn pilgrimages
to timeless
places that exude
the
divine and the profane.
Listen to
the notes of wind on stones
for
England itself is music.
The sound
of falling leaves
builds to a
crescendo that plays
where
hares and foxes dance,
and the timpani
of breaking waves
is heard above
the still, sad solo
of
nature’s faint, lamenting voice.
Read the
arcane texts written on the land
for England
itself is a manuscript,
a
palimpsest
where
each successive generation
inscribes
its own life’s story
across
the face of all the others,
leaving
faint, intriguing clues
of what
has gone before.
Follow in
forgotten footsteps
for England
itself is a pathway
taking us
to places
where we
long or fear to go,
saturated
with the tread
of those
who went before
and,
failing to return,
have reached
their journey’s end.
