This Bridge

It is a wicked (as in excellent) event - in the wicked (as in candle wick) hours - the dusk rhythm we have got into - each evening trekking as the light fades close to 9pm - out on a track into the land, discovering:

up-ended oaks come down in recent gales, oddly amputated mid-way down the trunk;
gobs of black sheep's wool caught on wire and branch ends;
hidden 'becks and gills' (local words for streams and brooks) coming down off Skiddaw and Blencathra, quietly tipping the night's edge just before dark;
bee-hives in the lee;
a cutting from yesterday's Guardian, an obituary of a local priest - the article placed inside a plastic sleeve and nailed to a barn door;
the eye-bright glow of gorse beyond, fluorescent, seemingly lit from within on the hillside -

All accompanied by the humble 'tramp-tramp-skip' of boots in the grass and on slate.

We find our way back in the purple dark with vaguely familiar landmarks appearing and hawthorn scent or marigold close by the 'X' shaped stiles pointing the way out of the sheep's marsh -

And my heavy, writing-leaden mood lifts at the tuck between the gill and the road where it is crossed by a small stone bridge (if you can even call it that being a platform of slate given lift by some salty boulders) and a tyre swing has been left by kids at the Applethwaite turn - it is at this moment that I know I must carry on through the this struggle, face the page again tomorrow, keep writing -

We are at the fulcrum where all the hills and fells on the west side of the lake can be seen clearly and each is a little tease at my belly wondering what the prospect of climbing each will be like - that still lies ahead in June -

Drawing back to the local: the black-faced lambs have come to stare in groups at the field edge, curious, watching our approach then leaping away when we get close, looking back at us, careening loose-footed up field to their elders.

Applethwaite, Cumbria
9/5/06