Poetry Seat

Six Stones

My normal Pennine walks, at gymnal pace, make thought a loop, repeated phrases, rehearsed dilemmas, songs that aid the lungs.

I passed Rain, on a favourite striding path, head down one way, noticed on return. I recognised the tone and initials, baffled delight over the bowed bridge.

Three months on, a chance query gave me the task, to visit five more, confirm that ordered words, at slower paces, live in these hills.

A day of drive walk drive times four found Puddle, Mist, Dew and Beck. Seeing more detail in the tumbling quarries, deep forest with shining grass beacons.

Today, a tendon tugging trudge, up a path ski jump steep, to stones like warehouse boxes, a rock stadium and there is Snow and this seat. Coherent calm.