Norman Nicholson(1914–1987)
To the River Duddon
I wonder, D u d d o n , if y o u still r e m e m b e r
An oldish m a n w i t h a n o s e like a pony's n o s e ,
Broad b o n e s , legs l o n g and l e a n b u t strong e n o u g h
To carry h i m over Hardknott at seventy years of age.
He c a m e to y o u first as a boy w i t h a fishing-rod
A n d a h u n k of A n n Tyson's bread and c h e e s e in his pocket,
W a l k i n g f r o m H a w k s h e a d across W a l n a Scar;2
T h e n as a m i d d l e - a g e d Rydal3 landlord,
W i t h a d o t i n g sister and a p e n s i o n on the civil list,
W h o left his verses gummed to your rocks like lichen,
T h e dry and y e l l o w e d g e s of a o n c e - g r e e n spring.
He m a d e a g u i d e - b o o k for you, f r o m your source
There where you bubble through the moss on Wrynose
(Among the ribs of bald and bony fellsupland tracts
W i t h screes4 scratched in the turf like grey scabs),
A n d twist and slither u n d e r h u m p b a c k e d b r i d g e s —
Built like a child's h o u s e from odds and e n d s
Of s t o n e s that lie about the m o u n t a i n s i d e —
Past C o c k l e y B e c k Farm and on to Birk's Bridge,
W h e r e the rocks stride about like legs in armour,
A n d the steel birches buckle and b o u n c e in the wind
W i t h a crinkle of silver foil in the crisp of the leaves;
On t h e n to Seathwaite, w h e r e like a steam-navvy5
You shovel and slash your way t h r o u g h the gorge
By Wallabarrow Crag, broader n o w
From becks that flow out of black upland tarns 0small lakes
Or ooze through golden saxifrage and the roots of rowans;
Next Ulpha, where a stone dropped from the bridge
S w i m s like a tadpole d o w n thirty f e e t of water
B e t w e e n steep skirting-boards of rock; and t h e n c e
You dribble into lower D u n n e r d a l e
Through wet woods and wood-soil and woodland flowers,
Tutson, the St. John's-wort with a single yellow bead,
M a r s h marigold, c r e e p i n g j e n n y and daffodils;
H e r e f r o m hazel islands in the late spring
The catkins 0 fall and ride along the streamspiky flowerings
Like little y e l l o w w e a s e l s , and the soil is l o o s e d
From bulbs of the w h i t e lily that smells of garlic,
A n d dippers rock up and d o w n on rubber legs,
And long-tailed tits 0 are flung through the air like darts;birds
By Foxfield n o w y o u taste the salt in your m o u t h ,
A n d thrift m i n g l e s w i t h the turf, and the h e r o n stands
W a t c h i n g the wagtails. W o r d s w o r t h wrote:
"Remote f r o m every taint of sordid industry.6
But y o u and I k n o w better, D u d d o n lass.
For I, who've lived for nearly thirty years
U p o n your shore, have s e e n the slagbanks7 slant
Like screes s h e e r into the sand, and s e e n the tide
Purple with ore back up the m u d d y gullies
A n d w i p e d the sinter dust from the farmyard d a m s o n s . 8
A h u n d r e d years of floods and rain and w i n d
Have w a s h e d your rocks clear of his words again,
M a n y of t h e m half-forgotten, b r i m m i n g the Irish Sea,
But that w h i c h W o r d s w o r t h knew, e v e n the old m a n
W h e n poetry had failed like desire, was s o m e t h i n g
I have yet to learn, and you, D u d d o n ,
Have learned and re-learned to forget and forget again.
N o t the radical, the poet and heretic,
T o w h o m the water-forces s h o u t e d and the fells
W e r e like a blackboard for the scrawls of God,
B u t the old man, inarticulate and h u m b l e ,
Knew that eternity flows in a mountain beck 0 —creek
The long cord of the water, the shepherd's numerals
T h a t run upstream, through the singing d e c a d e s of dialect.
He knew, b e n e a t h m u t a t i o n of year and s e a s o n ,
Flood and drought, frost and fire and thunder,
The frothy blossom on the rowan and the reddening of the berries,
The silt, the sand, the slagbanks and the shingle, 9
And the wild catastrophes of the breaking mountains,
There stands the base and root of the living rock,
Thirty t h o u s a n d f e e t of solid C u m b e r l a n d .