Cheesewring by Serena Trowbridge

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.


Serena Trowbridge