Take me back to the Mountains
Upon a rising fell it lay
With mist ivied round tree and rock,
A beck of swirling water at play
Slipping, sliding, glistening as a crack
Of silver. Curlew stalked upon the clay
Whilst I watched the green, green blue
Of earth and sky and took stock.
Its whiteness mirrored in the water’s edge
A purity and known in death,
Yet of life. Still it lays as of a wedge
Keeping open the door, no knife
Into the memory of those who went before,
Who stand on turf, sedge and ledge.
Dry, white, a mask of death
Amidst the life-sprung lambs
And flowering breath of spring-torn fools.
A thing apart, yet from within
Not to be mistaken for rock or branch
Its stillness gives a life of its own.
Mocking as it lies, a blanched smile
Within a wrecked home
Clear pure air whistles through those sockets
Eyelets upon the woven frame.
Greening cranium of a nobility often tested,
Lingering now amidst sweet grasses and sedges
Mouthing that final, fatal message:
Take me back to the mountains.
Dave Urmston c 2016
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