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On Marsden Moor
by
Simon Armitage
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Above the tree line and below the fog I watched two men on the opposite slope hauling wooden poles and slabs of dressed stone from the foot of the hill towards the top. They didn’t stall – just lifted, carried, dropped. I watched for an hour or thereabouts, way off, but close enough in a straight line to bundle them over with a big shout. Away from the five o’clock of the town, out from under the axles and bruised skies it bothered me that men should hike this far to hoick timber and rock up a steep bank. Because what if those poles were fencing posts to hammer home, divide a plot of land between the two of them, and those dumb stones the first steps to a new Jerusalem?
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