Lake District High
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The idea for this poem first came from the place names in the Lake District, which is in Cumbria county in the Northwest of England. The names are often melodious and interesting. It is also a very scenic place, though the highest mountain doesn't reach 4000 feet. The poet William Wordsworth lived much of his life there, at a time when it wasn't the major tourist attraction it is today. I use some verses and phrases from poets and walkers of an earlier time. Some local terminology - a Pike is a Peak, a Tarn is a Pond, a Beck is a Brook, a Scar is a cliff, and a Fell is a ridge or hill.
In my New York suburb, I’m mildly fond
Of Helvellyn Road, and Gracemere pond
But the original Helvellyn called...
Ravenglass too, even the name enthralled.
Of Lake poets, I eagerly read
And I found what Alfred Wainright once said:
[chorus]
His words echo across time’s bridge
That always there will be the lonely ridge,
the silent forest, the dancing beck
Though we have fleeting time on a cosmic speck.
Wordsworth thought the loveliest spot ever found
was near Grasmere Lake so I walked it around.
I beat the crowd to the top of Scafell Pike
Saw crags on all sides, what not to like?
Saw the Mourne mountains across the Irish sea
Snowdonia in Wales, steeped in history.
Wordsworth liked walking when mists veiled the sky,
Mists add variety, they distort, they magnify.
Hugging emerald meadows and tarns and becks
The mist lifts, to glorious backdrop effects.
I've often gone to where the grapevine led,
And I remembered what Wordsworth said:
[chorus]
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
than all the sages can.
I'd like to be on an airy ridge, seeing far
It would be cool to climb steps up a limestone scar
then stride to a big-sky panorama
Maybe join a fell runner, in nature's drama.
Follow Wordsworth where the rugged trail led
Recite once more what the poet said:
[chorus]
A deep delight the bosom thrills
Of these fraternal hills:
On top stones like bones the earth left alone,
But on those stones lichen has grown
Colored between the rocks and sky
The Lake District kind of high.
At the foot of Saddleback, while its brow appeared
A sad purple before cloud-shadow cleared
To the left I saw the jaws of Borrowdale
On the pure lake a standing man with a windswept sail.
There’s a confession I should make
The trip to Cumbria I could not take
I could only watch videos on my PC
Experiencing the region vicariously.
I make room in my mental space
For the good times of those who visit the lakes.
I think of sunset on a ridge, a hiker’s face aglow,
And that somewhere this exists is comforting to know.
An imagined eyrie where spirits fly
And fell runners reach that Lake District high.
Copyright © Mark Springer | Year Posted 2024
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