a first draft of a poem
In the style of Robert Frost, particularly his poems in North of Boston.
A couple of words of explanation/warning. This is autobiographical and describes a moment that was shocking for me because it was so rare. It is about my parents, who are ordinarily extraordinarily tolerant and loving toward each other. Also, I’m not yet completely happy with the poem, I find it sort of clunky and over-stated — but its ultimate form continues to evade me. I’m still working on it, but I thought you might like to hear from me after a week or so of silence!
Ashes Hollow, by the way, is one of my places - imprinted on my mind.
Going Walking, A Year Ago
We went walking not too far from our home
Starting from a quiet valley loved by
Old walker couples with stout boots on.
It’s called Ashes Hollow, cupped by hills
In the no-man’s land between two countries
The old wild place between Wales and England.
It is one of those lost days before New Year
When life lulls to a slower pace, snooze days
After Christmas excess. Ashes Hollow
Is the small river, sourced at Boiling Well,
Which winds gently between the three hills
And gives up its name to them.
We begin
In a smooth green field with sweet cropped grass
That softly lowers to the stream. This is
The base of the valley, the still secret place
Guarded by ancient oak tree sentinels
And a mossy fence. The water, sluggish
With cold, glows greyly in the misty grass.
As we move up the valley the clouds lift,
Light hurtles downhill, pools in the hollow,
And descending cold bites our cheeks redly.
Rocks hidden in the reeds are deadly
With ice: we walk with care. Only my father
Is not at all afraid. He moves swiftly.
Walking off his cares, rejoicing in the cold air,
He finds our more tentative steps a bind.
Though my mother does not understand
The tug of the heights and the freeing cold –
As I do – I feel it too – She follows
Gladly.
But soon we reach a crossing place
Caught in the neck of the closing valley,
Where the narrow path meets the dark river
And begins again on the other side.
The stepping places, lichened rocks, are slick
With ice and trodden water from the boots
Of those strong and noble walker couples
Who went before us. My father crosses
With no hesitation, his stride wide and firm.
I, with him in my vision still, pause
Then fling myself across on a snatched breath
And a heart-thud and swing on down the path,
My boot in the boot-steps of my father.
Forgetting for a moment my mother
Who tremulous on the other side remains.
She steps up to the edge and back again,
Frightened of her feet. But I soon feel
The absence in the taut sun and wind
Behind me, and stopping, turning, see
My mother trapped.
“—-Wait!” I call to my father
Who does not stop. “What?” “Mum is stuck.” I step
Back down the path. The space between them yawns.
“Oh,” he stops, looking up the valley, boots
Still pointing at the summit, “Well. Come on.
It’s not that difficult. You did it. So.”
He walks on a little; her eyes dart about
Seeking safe stones to step on, finding none.
“Dad —-“
He turns again with a sigh and calls,
“I don’t see why you can’t just manage this!
It’s just some ice! Besides if you do fall
It’s just a bit of water! Why can’t you
Trust your feet. For goodness sake.”
But torn from
His dream of wind-scraped peaks he passes me
And throws out his hand to help her cross.
As soon as she is on our side he takes
The lead again and steams up the hillside.
I look at my mother who is scouring
The path once more for good boot-places
And say, “Sorry.” Smiling: “It’s fine.” She scans
The icy ground, pushing a foot over the slick
And digging her metal-tipped stick into
The path-side heather. Says, “He’s tired, that’s all.”
