Teesdale
Walked up to the scar.
Walked down to the beck.
Walked on wet hay, on heather, On limestone, on spongy grass, Learning the shapes of tiniest lichen and rock plant, Marsh crowfoot and meadow campanula, The various yellows and reds of the monkey flower, Habitat of juniper, of mountain ash, Haunts of curlew and grouse, The wide distribution of starlings.
Bathed in clear shallows, in pools, In deeper, peat-coloured water.
Saw dawn and dusk, noonlight, moonlight, star-
light—
Caught a snatch or two of the small-talk of place.
When the wind began to sing, Articulate, with human voices from nowhere, There was an end to small-talk, Not one peewit to be heard.
When the mist came down.
There was no pasture, no copse, -Only the smell of hay getting lost in moorland, The green and the crimson moss drowning.
Wind and mist—
They took all the rest away. • MICHAEL HAMBURGER
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