ON SOUTHER FELL
(On Midsummer’s Eve 1745 the spectre of an army was seen processing along the top of Souther Fell near Blencathra in Cumbria. Twenty-six sober and reliable witnesses later testified to having seen the ghostly army despite no tracks or prints being found the next day.)
I put on hat and gloves and
tie my fell shoes firm to run
from Mungrisdale up Souther Fell
as mist drips from my Gortex shell.
Steep and rocky up the side
I push on hard with runner’s pride, till up,
then run with ease on grassy trod
that winds round rocks and over bogs.
And hearing only my own breath
alone, as someone left behind
by ancient army on the march
procession that had leaked through time.
A straggler who has lost the beat
whose synthetic sock and shoe-clad feet
are seeking rhythm on the trod
that winds round rocks and over bogs.
The mist is wet and soft and pale
yet just beyond its thin grey veil,
I sense the soldiers just in front,
I’ll catch them soon, or maybe won’t.
As I press on I see them not
but feel their breath in self-same air,
their feet along the self-same trod,
around the rocks and through the bog.
Hearing only my heart’s drum
I know that time has been and gone,
Running now in silent fog
The spectral runner on the trod.
THE RED LINE
She’s running near the red line
Knocking on Heaven’s door
She’s been this way so often
But not raced this fell before.
She’s running near the red line
Burning fire from within
It’s not just slaying dragons
Or confessing all her sins.
She’s running on the red line
Muddy, sweaty and uncouth
Racing to her limit
Seeking out the truth
Photo credits:Annabel Callis Holmes