Easdale Tarn
Poems and Thoughts from the Anxious Poet
Easdale Tarn
I came back from high Easdale Tarn
having walked off all my ingratitude.
A spark of sheep with earthen smell,
the lone Herdwick greenly chewing,
willing to absorb all those spines
that needle me into its own dusky pelt.
The tarn, when I reached it, rippled
with my unstillness and then settled
into the flawless reflection of the crag.
On the way down again, I spilled
over into the waterfall old griefs,
ones I usually pinch back in my throat,
leading to misery’s heartburn.
The winding dry stone wall—greyly,
slate-driven—led me down carefully
into the field, where the cows lay
herd-wise in the heat, sighing cuddily.
A mother beast lay her brow softly
on the brown vastness of her bull,
as they mothered and fathered me
in the afternoon’s milky haze.
The bridge over the final beck
smoothed its slaten flags towards
the little red post-box, and I composed
all my letterly regrets to be sent
to those I bruise, and a long missive
of frustration to one whose help didn’t.
But that one was really a letter to myself.
I felt the path wondering under my feet
if its directness had been too brutal,
but the gate to the road opened and
welcomed all the scuffs my boots wear.
I came back from High Easdale Tarn,
and my teacup was white like a new page.
Listen to the poem here:
I wrote this poem in September 2016 whilst on a retreat with the late lamented Father Daniel O’Leary in Glenthorne House, a Quaker retreat and conference centre on the edge of the town of Grasmere in the Lake District. On the journey up there and then every morning I felt the familiar, yet unwelcome presence of anxiety. Like a prickling on the edge of every conversation, like a nettle sting tingling, making its presence felt every time one’s attention isn’t completely held by the outside world.
The retreat was great, a wonderful group of pilgrims engaging with Daniel’s themes around the sacramental nature of ordinary life. The food was excellent and the surroundings were everything the lake district has to offer. We visited Dove Cottage and drank draughts of the romantic poet’s visions of the green world. Still the flickering disquiet haunted me. On my way to the morning session on the third day I saw a Herdwick sheep with a Jackdaw sitting on its back pecking off the ticks. It seemed a perfect portrayal of me and my anxiety and made me think that, once again, this uncomfortable companion had a role to play in my current drama.
We were given a free afternoon and I wondered what would help me. A walk seemed in order, perhaps with my camera, as it had been so often curative in the two years since my breakdown. I asked Terry the warden of the centre about possible routes for a walk. ‘Oh I would go up to Easdale Tarn if I was you, it’s not too arduous and really photogenic’. So I girded my loins, my camera and my packed lunch and set off up the well marked path. My experience is narrated by my poem. So I will post some photos to help paint more of a picture.
I have to say the walk up was more arduous than Terry led me to believe. It wasn’t helped by the unseasonably humid September weather - hitting 26 degrees. I was puce as a beetroot by the time I reached the tarn. He was completely accurate in the assessment that the place was photogenic - as I hope the photos show. I have been back to Easdale so many times since, including this week with my eldest daughter Eva. It always has a calming effect on me and any I take up there.
The last part of the poem that narrates my return always makes me slightly teary. I actually wrote the piece immediately, sitting on a bench resting my aching feet. One of the other participants on the retreat was a fabulous man called Tom Dorrian with whom I had helped arrange many visits of the Franciscan Priest Richard Rohr to the UK. He came up to me as I sat composing and he always made me smile. He was married to a wonderful woman called Pat and she and I shared many conversations about the hardships of a life with anxiety. Sadly they have both died in the last few years and so Easdale is a place that carries their memory for me. That is the wonder of place.
As I sat there figuring out how to end the poem, Tom came back to where I was sitting, carrying a cup of tea and a piece of fruit cake. ‘You’ve earned it’ he said and grinned. I sipped at the mahogany shaded brew and realised that the anxiety I had been carrying had been absorbed by my walk. Each line of the poem is testament to the phenomenal power of nature and place to hold us and return us to ourselves. I had both been befriended by my anxiety and it had done its work. I had looked at what had built up in my soul and let both the landscape and the four leggeds recreate me. I was one with my teacup, and it was white like a new page.
An absolutely beautiful poem full of hope in difficult circumstances. So lovely to see the photos Adrian - sending love to you both xx