Sunday, 30 November 2014

The Confident One!

Now older, Confident One walks the streets he owns.
Each stride - a punch into a future he owns too.

Born to confidence.
Born to reach his wants.
To know himself.
His parents bowled over by a creature of their own… his own too!
Then bred to achieve.
To construct his future.
To make the image in the world-mirror his own.
He places himself at the world’s centre.
Took the role of its soul.
Thought all his surroundings, both man and object, mere periphery
Or means and not ends.

His faith? A deep one - in himself.
His Savior? Himself.
His religion? Ditto.
His Creed? The Egotist’s Creed.
Its prime belief? To never doubt his own rights.
Its prime sin? Not to come first; or slump behind the crowd.

Confident One said: Praise be the confident one!

Sunday, 21 April 2013

The Moor's Strong Spring Wind

Yes! The luscious wind.
The warm wind.
The strong breath of a spring day.
Covering and caressing with warm cream.

The trees, too, are ringing; as they always do.
They turn the wind distinct.
Give it the unmistakable sound of power.
 Of relentless assault.
The tussocks dance. Dance and flower to it.
Upright and attentive to power. Control.

Move in into the mammary hills
As if heading somewhere.
Yet only head to the hills.
To get inside.
To stake a claim to heather, fern and peaty ground.
To put your arms around and close all in.

You move with it. Against it.
It takes your meagre weight. It plays with it.
Pushing you forwards, backwards, then sideways.

The warm wind.
The strong breath of a spring day.
[Source:  Halton Heights [Halton East] to Barden Moor, Embsay With Eastby, near Skipton, North Yorkshire, northern England.]

Friday, 12 April 2013

The Day Spring Opened


You know the season’s opened

When the lapwings’ cries clot the air.

When the heat’s been ratcheted up.

When new lambs bounce ecstatically, ceaselessly.

When curlews’ calls are everywhere – everywhere.

And the skylarks.

They are this season.

It belongs to them. To us.

This is fantastic.

Everything’s right.

Everything’s in place.

The hawks on the rocks; doing what they do.

What they’ve always done.

All chained to an unbreakable history.

 A heritage no one wants to break.


The sun. The moor. The hills.

They invite. Hint. Ask you to go deeper.

To find that something.

That unity between us. What we share.

Out here - what are we searching for?

We search and search and never find. Never will find…

Or we’ve found it but don’t know it.

Perhaps just being here is enough.

The being the land gives us is enough.

Why want, or need, more?

There is no more.

[Source: around the crags, moors and fells of Embsay Moor, between Embsay village and Barden Moor, near the town of Skipton, North Yorkshire, northern England.]

Sunday, 7 April 2013

How Much Truth Can You Take?

Can you take it raw? Without frills? Naked?
In its pure form. The form that can hurt you?
Illusion-smashing truth - that’s what I’m talking about.
Reality shown ugly and obscene.

So, again, how much truth can you take?
Enough to change your life for the worse?
To smash what you now believe?
What you’re now committed to?
And what you hold so dear?

Truth ain’t always as religions sell it – liberating and divine.
It can stink to high heaven.
Not always a vehicle to paradise.
A ticket to that uninstantiated Utopia.

Does all this sound good, then? Liberating?
Does it give you a frisson?
Will it change your life for the better?
Make you one with Nature, society or whatever?

Wednesday, 3 April 2013

Up There

Up there – right in the middle.
Wild. Not wilderness. Just wildish.
I’m down here, now. Snug in the valley’s bottom.

In my head’s a picture of the Up There.
To take me on. To abide with.
To take me there.
My little bit of joy
To remind of the elsewhere I love.

Up there things happen which don’t happen here.
The flow and the tunes are different. Very different.
Up there I can be.
Where nothing but the surroundings matter.

Monday, 1 April 2013

Ben Neville

"In de mountains we is free."

Ben Neville is my favourite mountain.

Up there in the clouds it was. Nice.

Right there inside bony Scotland’s midriff.

It had a certain charm and an uncertain grace.

"Ben, Ben, I love you Ben."

What I liked was its highness.

The way it went up and up - as a mountain.

Its tops floated among the clouds on high: without floating.

Then the peaks pierced deep the sky’s blue

And dispersed all the bright clouds too.

So one day, among other days, I did climb the Big Thing.

From dawn ‘til dusk it took me, wi mi bird at bottom, waiting,

Knitting warm underwear with bark.

When at the top, the truest top, I saw the August snow.

Snow in August! It was like rain in June.

It was as snowy as a snow-capped mountain; but less so.

But with some green things; and stones too.

I saw some sheep and some sheep saw me.

And hovering above us an eagle eyed the vast below.

Took me nearly eight hours to climb.

But quite less than that.

Back at the tent, it was deep in dusk and watering too.

Time had flied as I climbed and climbed.

The air had chilled and thinned to me.

I strode one leg before the other – in that order.

Striding as wide as the day was long.

And on that August, the day was as long as a wide stride.

Oh joyous existence and stuff.

That’s what I had that day.

I was being and seeing it all.

Deep in the depths of the outside.

Nothing purer. Nothing better.