• Posted on August 25, 2013 at 10:13 am

Monsal Dale and Viaduct

Your name is carved in the high vaulted arches
in Monsal Dale where the viaduct runs, trackless, still.

It is woven into the river, meandering, finding
its slow rhythm in a wide plain, lying with the cattle.

It is spoken in the wind, by the wings of swifts, caught
in the trees and on every familiar track, played, replayed.

Like the summer heat, cupped and held in this green bowl,
you can never be absent, because you have been so present.

And here I am, a guest. Why is my name not known, as yours?
Not spoken with love in the leaves, or written in the rocks?

Why no echo between the legs a hundred feet tall, and why
does the bed where the sleepers were torn, meet only iron doors?

I see your face, your gorgeous breeze-caught skirts, your smile, and this
has become a resting place and I, with respect, can only turn away.

Ghost trains of thought, where once there was a way, are leaving,
and I am sent to places I began, to start again, to walk, in Hope.


2013 © Andie Davidson

* Hope is a village in the Dark Peak, Monsal is in the White Peak of the Peak District National Park. The old Cresswell line entered a tunnel at Monsal Head.


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