Lathkill Dale


I have the good fortune to live on the edge of the Peak District National Park and I am also currently blessed with a lifestyle that enables me to explore the superb countryside on my doorstep frequently. Lathkill is one of the hidden treasures of the peak and is at its best in winter in midweek when there is space to enjoy a timeless, numinous sense of peace. This is an old and-as far as I can recall- an unpublished, reflective poem.

Lathkill Dale

Here silence is a gentle irony

A chuckle of creation and desire

In a languid run of shallow waters

Over ancient bones and creviced limestone.

Knowing our own life blood runs with rivers

As alive as our own internal tides

Sentient with improvisation

Whatever soul is, we will find it here.

Occasionally in quieter times

I have stirred with a vague unease

Sensing cold ancient eyes, watching me

From some stubborn curse of old religion.

Here the silence is turbulent, timeless

Reverberating with ancient trauma

The ancient love of hunter gatherers

The ugly death -wish of Neanderthals.

A silence then of timeless resonance

A thing that some may call belief

This private silence you alone can own

In whatever personal space you know.


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