Step upon the grass, rain-spattered, wind-shattered,
A fair distance down I see a wrought iron beacon, beckoning me
Forward across the pools of green, ploughed and pummelled,
At the top I'm one of the mass, swelling and apprehensive.
A blacksmith approaches, he reckoning me local.
He holds a bucket of fire, excited and ready,
Pour it on, the first flame ignites the hills, mighty at last.
The second from Brantfell, the third from Helvellyn, menacing and sharp. Fourth, fifth and sixth!
By dusk, eleven could be seen, from Scafell to the Pikes,
We lit the flame and we lit up the world.
I shift to another scene, silent and mysterious for
Miles I seem to be alone in perpetuity, oaken and peaceful.
The fields won’t stir, insentient and desolate,
I am one and myself, with empty heart yet enlightened.
And the people have gone. But cheered with fervour at the light,
It’s a marvel, those having a curbed life never saw.
I will sit, a metal bench and slate plinth for a walker,
Appreciate the thought close to the ‘mere, deserted and beautiful!
The beacon lays on its side, abandoned and burned,
It’s the only memory, of the Lakes, for some.