Another seasonal and previously published offering… I remember both the evenings that inspired this poem quite intensely at this time of year; two very special times separated by almost thirty years.
Talkin Tarn is a small lake in the Cumbrian Fells where I grew up and in the coldest of Winters it would freeze over…
Stumbling forth much cider-addled
swaddling-wrapped in Christmas cheer,
festive tunes beat marching rhythms
sung by luteous fuzz-blurred moon.
Light our tallow-faced meanderings.
Light our way to Talkin Tarn.
Hill-top guardians, black-limbed stanchions,
iron giants, arms outstretched,
spitting fizz, bright brittle crackling
arcs electric, purple hiss.
Walk the line of skeletal monsters.
Walk the line to Talkin Tarn.
Snow lined hollow, sleepy sheep all
fallow-buff like sugar lumps
fuddle thrown, sweet huddle-muddled
piled in china, white as bone.
Trudge our way in caravan.
Trudge our way to Talkin Tarn.
Bristled tines, pine scented arbour
succours snowy lunate shore,
underboot, soft-footed needlings;
seriatim rendered mute.
See the glistery icy vista,
see the mystery. Talkin Tarn.
Moon-loon madness overtaking,
dancing arm-linked can-can craic,
thwacking echo, snap-snap bull-whip
ricochet deep down below.
Risk life’s brittle carapace.
Risk the kiss of Talkin Tarn.