Underneath the hill’s wide hem

he walks away, grass moving as

worn boots brush blades aside.

Frayed jacket matching

dirt-brushed arms, trousers hitched

untidily with binder twine.

His screwed eyes survey his sheep scattered

wide across the sleeping vale, gimmer

and the shearling, sure within his

calloused palms, each broken finger-nail

knows the feel of every one.

Beaten brown through gale and storm

to leathered flesh, partner of

the cruel fells, where wind and

water reign, master of the bracken

and razored grass.

His crook an extra arm, a curling horn

hooking living wool, as his eager dog

a shooting blade, targets

lost lambs

across the friendless heath.

At last he rests.

Boots sprawl upon the step,

laces loop in weary pools,

his tired crook hangs dormant for a spell,

and by the quivering fire he tries to understand

the changing times, remembering the past.

Will he be the last to walk this land?

He sadly smiles, sips his tea

and sleeps.

 

© Jackie Huck

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With special thanks to members of the Wordsworth Trust Writers group for their submissions inspired by our 'Our Common Heritage exhibition during its display at The Old Courthouse in Shap; its themes evident in their featured work.

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