I braved the Barley steps in the half light this solstice morn. No brilliant sunise to behold this year, but some breaks in the cloud afforded views from the heights that seemed to be a floating gallery of surreal bubbles. Each one holding small private world of sunlit fields. Just a few bold wanderers on the hill, and some drumming chanters whom I avoided, preferring the quiet stillness of the dawn. Anyway, I'm posting the Pendle poem I wrote after I stayed on the hill overnight, and caught a clear and brilliant sunrise, on the Summer solstice of 06. Back to work now, on my new 'Mystic', epic.
On The Witching Hill At Midsummer.
The path was steep but stepped for ease, as we mounted
the flank of ‘The Whale’.
Our mission was to test the truth, of another old Pendle
tale.
For Pendle hill is a mound of myths, and fantasies and
dreams,
Where witches ride, and ghosts abide, and a wind whipped
Bean Sidhe screams.
With noble and forbidding brow, and broad of back and
shoulder,
The ancient altar hill was shaped by mighty ‘frost
giant’ moulder.
Looming up from England’s heart, as if it heaves with
pride
The ‘Old Man’ glowers sternly oe’r the pastured
riverside.
We pegged our sheet on the plateau, with the sky still
full of light
And waited on the magic hill to greet the Gods of night.
A massive Moon swept the southern sky, like honey in a
jar.
A groaning glow that challenged, the light of the
evening star.
The Sun slid into the western sea, throwing up colours
and shade:
Amber, gold and cobalt blue; coral and beige and jade.
Then as the arc celestial dimmed, to navy blue, from grey
The marchers of the heavens came to boldly stride their
way.
Mirfak elbows clear a path for Perseus to steer.
She goat, Capella’s glistening bleat heralds the
Charioteer.
A bright eye gleams on Lyra’s harp; Vega, the eagle of
stone.
Cassiopeia, still vain in her chain, spins on her
captive throne.
I sat musing on the summit mound, and watched the
starlight bloom,
And remembered that the hill, held many an ancient
tomb.
I thought of how those stone age people, buried at
this site
Must have seen those self-same stars, on long gone,
Midsummer nights.
There were two of us at the vigil; yet I’d read how
in days gone by,
A healthy host of hundreds had gazed at the morning
sky.
Dear old Jessica Lofthouse; had written the tale of tradition.
And she’d told the tale of the dubious sight that
had brought us on the mission.
From Pendle’s height at Midsummer sunrise,
she’d claimed one would behold,
York Minster windows, reflecting the Sun, shining
a reddish gold.
It’s seventy miles from Pendle to York, so like many we
had pondered,
And wondered if old Jessica’s mind, just like her feet
had wandered.
But come the dawn, if skies were clear, we’d put it to
the test.
And we fixed a compass point to York, at the highest
point of the crest.
A steady chill had gripped the air, there were wisps of
cloud and rain.
So we brewed some tea, and I took a stroll around the
upper terrain.
I could see the glow of great cities, and towns, making
orange, the sky;
Manchester, Liverpool, Burnley and Blackburn, easy to
pick with the eye.
But to the north, just the darkened shape of the
dreaming Bowland fells.
And north and east in the purple night, the limestone
moorland swells.
Suddenly, I realised I’d lost the track I’d followed.
I’d strayed in from the plateau’s edge to where the
ground had hollowed.
A cloud had settled on the hill, and the mist was
getting thicker.
I shone my torch on the ground around, and the light
from it started to flicker.
I knew that a great many lives, had ended on this place.
The records show the details, of many a tragic case.
Some had wandered over the edges and hurtled to their
deaths.
Others, in the bogs and soughs, had gasped their final
breaths.
And tales abound of some who were found; their faces
frozen in fear.
In the mind's eye, on a misty moor; who knows what might
appear?
It was said that here the witches met, great evils to
set free.
More likely just a bunch of bawds, having a midnight
spree.
But their frolics cost them dearly; hanged and vilified.
Perhaps their only evil, was they’d fancifully lied?
But myths hold hard in folk mind, and few gaze on this
hill,
Without a thought of cackling crones, and maybe feel a
chill.
Myths beget myths, and terror tales on mystic canvass
bloom,
Like Duergar, an evil dwarf tricking wanderers to doom.
Greenies; the fairies from under the hill, setting traps
and snares,
And Spriggan elves who rob and thieve and make off with
your wares.
I chuckled at the thought of how, such legends could
begin.
How brigandage had been explained by supernatural spin.
How many had escaped the law, who’d simply helped
themselves,
Then turned up in a fearsome state, and claimed to be
robbed by elves?
But I’d need to move most warily; to save my light and
test my tread,
By prodding with my oaken stick, to traverse Pendle’s
misty head.
Or stand there in the chilling gloom and wait for the
mist to lift?
But a settled mist could hold for days, so I’d have to
make a shift.
I moved, avoiding bogs and boulders, gully, ditch and
bush.
Determined to come to a path, without a panicked rush.
Something moved behind me. Scuffling across the ground.
I glimpsed a shuffling huge dark shape; heard the low
growl of a hound.
The Striker, sometimes called the Trash, was said to
roam this bog.
A demon eyed, razor toothed; huge ferocious dog.
Another silly tale I thought, Though my neck hair had
grown stiff.
No man of my age should be feared by silly country myth.
But my mind had been gripped by Barbus, the demon of all
fears,
And each ditch gurgle, and whisper of brush was fodder
for my ears.
I thought of hybrid wolves maybe? Survivors from the
past,
The last wolf slain was not from here. If it was
the last?
But I firmly gripped my oaken stick, and pushed on
through the mist.
I’d deal with any flesh made thing with stick and boot
and fist.
And if some demon thing of darkness, came at me from
hell,
I’d say ‘Regards to your master. I feel I know him well.’
I’ve seen his work in human kind, who back stab, cheat
and lie.
While they smile and wheedle to your face, and look you
in the eye.
And I know there’s nothing in the hells, so brutal and
so vile
As the demons of humanity who slaughter with a smile.
Whatever slid along the ground, old badger, fox or thing
in hiding,
Probably had a purer heart, than one in which
falsehood’s abiding.
The thickening fog started to swirl, serpents and
dragons peopled the mist,
Faces of some I knew were dead, some I had fought with;
some I had kissed.
I marvelled at my own mind’s eye and how it could
conjure any such sight?
The imagination’s a well fed thing on a haunted hill in
the dead of night.
A gentle breeze wiped my brow, and the fog flew from the
moor.
I beheld the milky way again and the glare from the
valley floor.
My nightmare done, I found the track and went to the
summit again.
Where my companion grunted, and uttered a curse, about
‘fog and bloody rain.’
I settled and took an offer, of a welcome brew of tea,
And gazed up from our island hill on the heavenly
starlit sea.
I was drowsy, but old Morpheus, had no embrace for me.
So after a while I shifted again, to look for sights to
see.
From the edge of the hill I saw torches, making their
way through the dale
And I reckoned we’d have several more on the hill,
before the sky would pale.
We made a fresh brew with water fetched, from the
Holy Well at the nose.
Holy to Druids; then Christians. And maybe to what
follows those?
Then as the skies lightened more people arrived, and we
numbered around a score.
There were nods and hellos, but our numbers were small
compared to days of yore.
But spirits and expectations were high, as the
lightening sky shone blue,
And the vales were filled with a soft golden glow, of
gentle octarine hue.
A man started setting a compass point, and clearly the
east was his goal.
We spoke with him, and he too looked to York, to test if
the story was tall.
With hours to go before Helios hail, the midsummer
daylight was full,
And we felt rather foolish that we’d stayed up all night
and made our senses dull.
But the mists in the valleys now hung grey, on the
courses that carried the streams.
Ribble and Hodder and Calder. Were veiled in smoky
dreams.
The green on the fields had a lustre so bright, they
seemed like emerald hoards.
And a soft brown shade alighted the fells, that they
wore like the ermine of Lords.
The eastern horizon was edged for an hour with a sliver
of orange gold.
And the promise was strong that before very long, a
wondrous sight would unfold.
Watches were glanced at, cameras were set, as the
sunrise time came close.
And we looked down on a world where sleepers, slumbered
in repose.
Lost in dreams and anxious fears for manna, love and
hope.
Unaware of our excitement, who had braved the Pendle
slope.
And although I’d paid no fee, save the energy of the
climb.
I felt a sense of privilege to view this dawn sublime.
A murmur rumbled across the hill and north east fixed,
were eyes.
With strange anticipation, as if for some surprise.
And a streak of lightening silver flashed across the
horizon lip.
As the might orb, of morning glory, showed it’s leading
tip.
A blast of orange struck the world and filled the
morning haze.
The hills glowed purple, lilac, pink in whirling heaven
rays.
Bright sparks did firefly dances, on stone barns and dew
damp walls,
And boiling light, poured through valley clefts, like
rolling waterfalls.
Fields of yellow flowers blazed gold, blinding to the
sight.
Wild verdant vibrations, filled green fields with
shimmering light.
The ponds and lakes and reservoirs were sights of awful
dread,
For each was now a pool or patch of brightest crimson
red.
As if some slaughterer in heaven, had wielded a butcher
knife.
And spattered there upon the land, some great God’s blood
of life.
Like poison sulphur spewing vents the river mists boiled
yellow.
Then changed before our eyes to a pinkish hue, more
mellow.
And from yellow to pink; red then amber, like a
galloping horse,
The changing colours raced along, down each river’s
course.
A voice called out, “Look! Look! It’s true.” And an arm
was pointed east.
And we turned and saw a splendid thing for any eyes to
feast.
Across the vales and dales from York, as promised and
foretold,
No pinprick light, but blistering blast, flared mightily
and bold.
Blazing like a second Sun from the lofty sacred bower,
Reflected light, glared burning bright, from the
Minster’s lantern tower.
Oh Jessica my darling girl, if I could hug you now,
I’d squeeze you tired shoulders, and kiss your wrinkled
brow.
I bless your shade, in a paradise glade, may they hail
you as a Queen.
For here on earth by your guidance, I have truly heaven
seen.
Eyes were wide and throats were dry as if we were
dumbstruck.
Each feeling that, to just behold, this thing, was
certain luck.
And I felt somehow that if I never, ever, saw another
thing.
I’d care not, for I had just looked on the jewel store
of a King.
The Himalaya, Alps, and the high Andes may be fine.
But I’ll take England’s quilted pastureland, for taste
of the divine.
The rising Sun had rolled to a height, showering it’s
food of life.
On a world of anxiety, grasping and worry, turmoil, hate
and strife.
The river mists were grey again, melting to a haze.
And the magic hours had passed. We were back in the
measure of days.
Now blue and slate grey green, shone the lakes that had
been red.
And we left the hill in the care of the sheep, and the
ancient resting dead.
As we descended, I wondered if, I might climb that track
again,
If spared from the stuff of the flesh curse; ageing,
sickness, death and pain?
I glanced in the mirror as we drove away, at the peak
tip I'd bestrode.
And I swear the ‘Old Man’ nodded at me! Or was it a bump
in the road?
David Hazell © 2006
