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Monday, 19 June 2006
Scree & pine.
To wake with aches and a lifting happiness, can only the consequence of walking in hills.
The circumference of a dale, paced and climbed with a little trepidation, lagging at the rear of the group, looking obsessively at the short slide and drop onto the crags where the smudged carcass of a sheep lies, decomposing.
Handfuls of friends, a descent into scree and bracken, the dark charcoal line of incoming weather - all is lost upon Patterdale. And what joy in a name! The location of something, here things exist; our pass is called Hartside.
Now I sit watching the house opposite shift furniture into a tall van. Croydon, Dilston, Brighton, Sidney. These are our own grids and movements, we experience this for ourselves.
Back to the weekend, to great arches underground and the constant, consistent fall of water through bareheaded thread moss and slate, the dampened branches of a fallen tree proividing limbs to climb. A memory rests, hidden, something of which we cannot speak, something which became a resolution and a reminder. The constant, consistent drip into an awareness will not end. Every tree and rocky spur, each cloud snagging atop the peninsulas, each lake slant and watery beck - all become features.
Somewhere in a place that a poet is unable to locate, the legions of pine, racked against the wind, touch tips.
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