Easedale Tarn
Steven Jackson
If I return here another year,
I’ll bring my memories back
carrying them in this sack of flesh and bone.
They will sleep in me and start when I am here again.
They will rest in the toes of each foot
under cover of socks and boots
and I will feel them stir.
They will lie still -
until stones become familiar to the sole -
then rise in me.
They will feed on the pain in my knees.
They will leap in my chest,
at the waterfall
dropping its spits from the half-summit.
They will sing in the throat
when the climbing’s done
and my victorious yawp sets its echo.
They will live at the top, at the tarn,
to be seen, untarnished,
preserved in oils,
in lights which glisten on black.
