On Top Of Mam Tor
On top of Mam Tor
a trig point faces all the world,
east and west, south and north.
Above it turns the biggest sky
and the brightest days
and the darkest nights.
You can see so far,
you could see the end of your life.
A path from the summit
leads along the Great Ridge
to Back Tor and Lose Hill.
Around the summit curls
ditches and walls, a ring
of defences, protecting the Tor
to the east and west, the south and north
from all that could happen,
or be imagined,
in times long before history.
A small barrow, collapsed, like a limpet,
clings to the south of the Tor,
waiting to tell us more
of our own histories.
Below and east is a dead road.
It died when the Shivering Mountain
shook and killed it with its trembling.
The summit sits on a barrow,
a place made by people
when the idea of a people,
of belonging to a people,
was life and death.
It is all cobbled and covered now
to protect it from assault
by the feet of people.
There are always people.
In the early, early morning,
or the late, late night
it is possible to have the hill
to yourself.
Alone, you can sit and watch
the sunset
the sunrise
the stars
the skies
and wonder
who lived
who died
and how
and why
on top of Mam Tor.
Writing Me Up 