We stand assured, macadam solid under boot.

Left and right, road ribbons to nothing.

Behind us the surety of a familiar way, ahead?

A drenched black canvas without features,

save for sodden bog pocked with grit grey stone,

way marked by twisted bloomless gorse.

A dun mud mire rising toward a hidden summit,

our goal, unseen. On Black Hill.

Rotting layers of long dead musty forest.

The fossil fragments of ancient timbers,

past splintering present.

Strike out with firm resolve onto quivering morass,

soaked ground sucks at uncertain feet.

Earth’s aggression, clawing back as

we plod on, on to Black Hill.

Moist air thickened with mizzle, blends with

sodden earth, loosened by ooze. The margins blur,

beginnings and endings tangle our steps.

Watery spindles of sunshine light the near horizon.

Paces hasten, breath quickens, a promise of arrival?

A false flattering summit. No, just another brow,

another dip, another brow rising, remorseless.

Regroup, re-gather. With faltering stride as

Boggarts of doubt gnaw, sly sharp fingers

picking and pulling at fraying resolution.

Sliding, striding, slipping, striving.

Then from the mess beginnings of a path.

Others have trodden here following their own doubt.

Narrow, threading between glowering hags.

Serpentine, but true towards the elusive crown.

Which silently appears.

One last bend, a solitary cairn stands tall,

shrouded behind a veil of mist, a herald of vindication.

A moment of pause, to reflect, on which way next?

And all round the Black Hill earth shoulders away

Giving no clue, no view nor vantage.

North, south, east and west, obscurity stretches ahead.

Again strike out with firm resolve, in small steps of faith.

Above Black Hill a lark rises, tumbling, singing, the earth below her, the edges of

darkness, and pastures beyond.

 

Graham Catlin 2015