Serena Trowbridge reads a lot of poetry but has only recently started (admitting to) writing it. She lives in Worcestershire where she does a lot of walking and cloud-watching, and in her spare time she is a lecturer in English Literature at Birmingham City University.
What hand made these? Not human; God
or giant? Saints or witches? The work of
people quarried stone, grew radar masts,
altered landscape and the view, but these
stones show how small we are and how we
still must wonder. Smooth undulating hills
of curves new-formed, enclosed, controlled.
Out of the mist a hill arises; Avalon, perhaps,
its greenness scarred by tinners. Nature battles
back and fights itself, wind whittling shapes
of trees, elements modelling rocks on a giant
potter’s wheel, spinning with the earth. Seas
of mist creep up and push me closer to the
sky, so I too am a giant, looking down
across the earth. This is a place for incantation
and the sacred flame (if the wind will let you
light one). Unkind thorns with bitter, withered
berries looming witch-like leer through fog.
Unhuman tracks obliterate the paths of walking
boots. People count for less up here.