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From 'Iron Age (On Solsbury Hill)'
by Pamela Gillilan

Ruched in new green a line of hawthorns
fended the wind from us until, climbing
the earthwork's slope, we broke
into bareness, a wide stage, closeturfed,

spattered with April daisies, no bush or tree
standing against the wind, no boundary
but the edge, the drop to encircling farmland --
variegated, functional, the forest's

tamed successor. Now this height is the wilder;
unploughed ages lie deep over the scars
of hearths where the first ironmasters
made tools to ease their living and, in fear,

death's sharp instruments. In the Easter sunshine
we walked slowly, at ease, as if the Earth were safe.


...and graphics to accompany it. Still can't believe I was there. Still can't believe these came from my own camera.


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September 2017

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