Julian Dobson
Sallows
be thy name. Sallow as willow, as salix,
sallow as sickly, saliva. This sponge
of a hill, every footstep a font.
Low cloud, stiff breeze. No shelter.
Salvation? It is not worth the detour.
Yoke
My yoke is easy. The first few yards
are abominably marshy. A track is a stream
by the wall: follow it, wade in it. Waves
of wind turn knolls into hassocks. Skylarks
go off like alarm bells. Discarded
iron fence posts bracket the summit.
Ill Bell
Text battles with context: the graceful cone,
distinctive and of good appearance. Mist,
freezing gale, trespass against. Striations
of stone like felled soldiers. The walker
who toils up to the top of Ill Bell
may be pardoned.
High Street
A trig point – hubris of logging, surveying
enterprising pedestrians approaching
from Hartsop. Give us this day: a walker,
poled on fast-forward – ‘is this the summit,
or that rise over there?’ – a backpack of clouds,
flask of sunlight, slice of wall to crouch in.
Julian Dobson‘s work has appeared in print and online journals including The Rialto, Stand and Acumen. Julian lives in Sheffield.
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