Bleasdale Circle

Stuart Rawlinson

 

The land is barren on Christmas Day.

Fragments of ferns imprint the Earth;

A solitary deer hides in the mill.

 

A starving wind reaches from the Irish Sea

And buffets the latent memories, ‘til

Trees are no longer skeletons, and

 

Children no longer hibernate.

The village hall wafts its cream teas,

Battenbergs; the smell of old wood in the church –

 

Aroma of memory’s prescience.

 

And so to The Circle. Surrounded

By trees whose names I never knew.

An encyclopaedia upon the moor’s lectern

 

Fills in the missing memories

That the roots forgot to grow – Flowers

Become more than rose or daffodil;

 

Birds become hawk, osprey and sparrow.

Why a circle? Gravity’s contours

Bring me back, time and time again,

 

Whether dilated or contracted.

 

Has the Fell always been ruined?

Crumbling stone walls; sections of hedge,

Enclosed and en-ditched.

 

Is remembrance destruction?

An implanted circle of teeth in the

Moor’s gum, it augments your reflection.

 

The Stele

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