From The Path Of the Hare.

The Hare and the Swallows.

The hare sat in the rough pasture and awaited the on-coming thunderstorm. The afternoon had gone from being chilly to very close and humid. It was the end of April and the weather had being poor. The sky gradually darkened with ominous intentions. Then came a deep grumbling from the southwest. The slight breeze had abated and all was now stillness.
The sky grumbled once more.
The hare remained unmoved. What will be will be.
The rain came fast and hard. First a few powerful heavy drops splattering on the grass, then the promised torrential downpour pounding the earth with a show of elemental power. This was a show of force; a message from nature that she was not to be messed with or taken for granted.
Soon the dark vengeful clouds passed over and the sun showed himself once more, at first fitfully, then gradually gaining confidence to shine down. On the tumbled stonewall nearby the heat quickly made the surface layer of water steam emitting an earthly smell into the air. Birds began to sing once more, first a blackbird in the hawthorn tree than a resplendent male chaffinch perched on a fence post.
Through all the turmoil the hare sat crouched like a piece of gritstone that lay strewn about the area. Now he sat up as if to greet the sun with a welcoming gesture. Then as if appearing on a beam of sunlight, a pair of swallows skimmed across the rough pasture, twittering as if with excitement. As they flew low, directly over the sitting hare, he suddenly leaped up into the air with a sinewy, sidelong twist, his legs outstretched and his long black-tipped ears tilting at an unaccustomed angle. To one watching it seemed a leap of sheer joy, a welcoming of long distance travellers back home to the pasture. The swallows continued to sweep over the field weaving their patterns through the humid air. The hare appeared to watch for a moment then he loped off through a gap in the wall and was swallowed by a thicket of brown-tipped sedge, and finally vanished, leaving the swallows to twitter and chatter and spin their tales in the spring sunlight.

The Drover.

The mist clings to the high edge like a curse
The cold fingers of spirits stroking my face
With some strange longing – maybe thoughts
Of a past life - half remembered sunlight and dreaming days
When the heather tasted of honey
And birds sang sonnets in the vibrating air.

As I sit with my back to a fossil wall
Where time itself crawls through the silence,
Through the unearthly veil:
The jangle of tiny bells,
Of jostling panniers,
The soft whinny of a horse or pony,
The familiar word of command, the friendly
Bark of a dog about his duty, steam
From moist nostrils merging into the dull muffled
Blanket of clinging air.

There are ghosts here on Stake Side
Still working the old tracks, Jaggers
Leading their ponies and horses from the Silk Road,
Up the cloughs and over the moors by Windgather,
From Saltersford, passed Shuttlingslow
Laden with silk and salt.

I peer into the gloom, straining to catch
Sight of this shaman of the hills,
One of these long-distant travellers,
These star men, who merge into the landscape
As readily as any crag or gnarled Peakland oak.

“On, Samson, on,” bespoke a muffled voice:

Then shapes loomed like high stones on the moor,
Snow surely swirled and swarmed in that spot,
Elements raged like old stone gods,
Words froze to the tongue.
The raven croaked in the quiet
And blue streaked from above.
Distant the bells then gone
No prints
No signs
Only wind playing tricks
And Crom asleep in the ground.*

* From Alan Garner’s Thursbitch

Hob I’ th’ Hurst.

As the Huntress peers from ragged cloud
On a realm that sleeps in midnight’s dream,
Spirits stir from misty shroud
And creep from shadow haunts unseen.

From a hidden cave in Deepest Dale
Hob plays his game of hide and seek
Through tangled brier and mossy vale
To haunt the district of the Peak.

As brown owl hoots upon the tree
Hob goes creeping, tricky fellow he.

Where fox and badger both prowl at night
Passed Reynard’s Cave he makes his way,
Under silver stars that shine so bright
Upon the placid River Dove at play.

Along drovers track and Roman road
Through Doctor’s Gate onto the moor,
Where packhorse toiled with heavy load
From the River Noe to Higger Tor.

As rivers rush towards the sea
Hob goes dancing, merry fellow he.

On the grassy bank of a rushing stream
Where a dipper hides in secret nest,
And speckled trout in moss-weed dream
Hob sits beneath the stars to rest.

On bleakest moor the curlews cry
Like ghostly banshees in the night,
As Dianna rides the clouds on high
Putting the shadow demons to flight.

Orion peeps from the heavens to see
Hob merrily singing, Puckish fellow he.

A bowl full of cream is his reward
Old ‘Hobthrush’ drinks his fill,
The farmer is now good works assured
Instead of tricks and mischief ill.

But as owl floats by on silent wing
And hunting bats over tree-tops fly,
Hob creeps his way passed the magic ring
Of Arbor Low where the great stones lie.

In Peakland hills seven wonders to see
Hob goes striding, mischievous fellow he.

Hob makes his way through Lud’s green church
Down slippery steps both worn and steep,
Where brave Gawain ended his lonely search
His meeting with the Green Knight to keep.

By darkest mere much like starless sky
The mermaid combs her dripping crown,
But wily old Hob goes dancing by
Before she ups and drags him down.

Tall crags rise where clouds should be
Hob goes climbing, cunning fellow he.

Passed ancient cairns where chieftains lay
In hollow hills beneath green mound,
To Stanton Moor he wends his way
Where magic lingers all around.

Here upon to meet nine maidens fair
And dance beneath a Sabbath moon,
In a fairy ring without a care
To a strange and merry old fiddler’s tune.

As nine fair maidens dance with glee
Hob laughs loudly, the strange fellow he.

As Arnementis bathes in the early morn
And Lugh from slumber begins to wake,
The Huntress fades with the light of dawn
As the birds their chorus begin to make.

Among silver birch where shadows play
Creeps morning mist to catch alone,
The dancers fair by light of day
And turn Nine Ladies into stone.

The owl alone looked down to see
Hob running home, the ‘Goodfellow’ he.