Descent of Rossett Ghyll

Langdale ghylls were forged in fire, shaped in press of ice.
Ice shattered slicks of stone into rocky shards –
Ground into steeps of scree or split and split again.
Becks below run quick and clear, cleaned in silt of slate.

Pikes above, ghylls beneath, Langdale combe extends –
Watery waste surrounds us: marsh and rush and sedge.
Tracks are lost in passages by hags of peat and bog,
Target tarn a torment, a tantalising trick.

Weary from upland wandering we come at last to the tarn.
Refreshed, then, resolve renewed, up to the head of the ghyll.
Downward we bend our gaze, down to the deep defile,
Buttressed by rough and rocky bluffs, strewn with chaos of slate.

We peer beyond to the distant dale, far-off Promised Land,
Hesitant and cautious step commits us to the ghyll.
Now poised on rocky pinnacle, now on shifting scree,
Now clutching sun-warmed slabs, we reach the bridge at last.

Moraine behind, clear track ahead, we march along the dale.
The trial now behind us, the rest is simple slog.
There is no rest. There’s far to go and our time is short
But friendly arms await us and pain is soon forgot.

This piece was an exercise in alliteration. It followed a note I sent to the parish magazine about L. du Garde Peach. Older readers will remember him as a writer for Children’s Hour on the wireless. He had a little theatre near my home in the Peak District of Derbyshire and I recalled one of his plays, written like an old Icelandic saga, full of alliteration.
This piece was an exercise in alliteration. It followed a note I sent to the parish magazine about L. du Garde Peach. Older readers will remember him as a writer for Children’s Hour on the wireless. He had a little theatre near my home in the Peak District of Derbyshire and I recalled one of his plays, written like an old Icelandic saga, full of alliteration.