Scree at Pendle Hill

Poem by Jeffrey Loffman

i                                                       
Metal pins heal warts, ground-to-cloud lightning
strikes the summit, nightmares the yellow sun
of St. John’s Wort might soothe,
arthritic relief in turmeric. To not conform

threatens elites, Witch! Witch!
Chattox and Demdyke cauldrons stirred,
blind daemons lit, clay figures fired;
after a feud the hanging, a short drop.

Mix ginger, a dash of rosemary, catnip
and calendula for ease, cinnamon to tame the bloods.
Hygiea comes in different forms, so relief
                                   
for the Pendle sick, clouds thicken
like a raven’s unkindness. This barometer
sees dense air, pressure and mercury soar.

ii
More recent steeples rule the landscape of our lives,
monthly salary slips a rent for our souls,
digitised tithes from our poor scratchings
of labour around these lands.

Some say this is years ago, of course, when scars were fewer,
when I could climb Pendle quicker,
and change was a Word away.

iii
Lancashire downpours; we walk among moorland trees
clothes sodden. It dampens the ardour for the climb.
Black rain has darkened mid-days here,
and you say Walk on.

I breathe in, aim for the ascent
with the roofs and chimneys in sight below.
With each stride I lean on my walking stick,
you sprint up. Relentlessly.

A John Law curse still drips even as we reach the height.
We ignore the omens and dark whispers and fake cures
from this wild hall of history,

I seize hand-sized pieces of scree at my feet
and spell, without thought,
Be Valiant for the Truth.

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