Eycott Hill
by Jeremy Benson
Still now and quiet
in the lee of the hill,
walking through the slow
articulation of stone.
We follow the strata’s flow
rippling and eddying
in the ancient streams
of our molten planet.
In this holy, pagan landscape
the layered intrusions of history
seem timeless and more distant
than the ice age they spanned.
As we reach the hill top,
a burning blue dragonfly
settles on a volcanic boulder
in crystallised decoration.
Its enjoyment is momentary
in the late afternoon sun,
driven on, like us,
by urgency and brevity.
A sudden, scouring wind
sweeps from Blencathra,
perfectly describing the simple
realities of fell and stone,
And I am silenced by the eloquence
of this implacable geologic,
locating us inexorably
in the fragile uplands of our lives.