Poem: Gathering
morning chases shadows
grass pale, occasionally gold
water ribbons, white
make no mistake - it’s tough
this ground of rocks and bog and slant
uphill running, for miles, stubborn ewes
and the bigger picture:
weather, uncertainty
here, a shepherd is as camouflaged as any herdwick
a herdwick the colour of rocks
wind plays with the sounds of the valley
listen:
whistles
Craig is somewhere on South Fell
Jonny’s holding the western edge, running
Nick, in the valley, points to ridge, trod, crag
maps the place with outstretched hand:
names shaped by water, rock
and centuries of work
Esk, Ore, Langdale,
Black Crags, Stake Pass, Tongue
in the language of this ruffled land
something shifts with passing time
the frame remains, but players change
and the story turns, again, and again
we squint into sun
and see what we’ve been searching for:
a figure on the skyline
sheep spill down the fell
and now we are all on the move
people, dogs, sheep, water, clouds and sound
passing over land
Jonny yelling away away
Craig calling lie down lie down
Nick whistling, and hollering
look back, look back
a scattering of sheep becomes a line
all greys and blacks, ewes and lambs
quick footed on familiar trods, crossing
the beck, the only place they can
we follow, at a run
some dash off
the shepherds’ shouts send dogs
up and up, around the crags
sheep always want to go back uphill
the hardest bit is getting them down
finally, a swell of wool and bleats
two hundred sheep ready to be sorted
the threads between people, sheep, dogs, land
tightened, for a time, and we’re all together
breathing, jostling, waiting
before the sheep flow back
to the clouded fells
that’ll do, that’ll do
lie down, lie down
