Metroland

I belong to Metroland, a group of poets most of whom live in Buckinghamshire, although some come from much farther afield. We meet monthly in Amersham, and last night I went along for the first time since October. The usual format is to spend about an hour and a half on reading the work of published poets (although occasionally there is a 'forum' in which a member talks about a topic of poetic interest), and then, after refreshments, to devote a similar time to workshopping members' poems. Last night we had been asked to bring copies of poems by poets whose surnames began with T, U or V (we work our way throught the alphabet so as to avoid repetition as much as possible), and I took Edward Thomas's Lights Out, written in 1917 just before he was killed at Arras. I thought most people would know the poem, but nobody did, and it was a popular choice. Later I read an untitled poem I had written for Sue, intending to amend it in the light of friends' comments, but unless people were being tactfully charitable (Yeah, probably, Dad) they reckoned it was fine as it was, and were almost embarrassingly effusive. Some of these people have had much more work published than I have, and really know what they are talking about, in my opinion at least, so their views matter to me. When I got home I gave the poem to Sue with the notes I'd made on others' comments scribbled all around it, but today I've printed a pristine copy and written a little dedication to her. It's given us both a lift. Here it is.

Now it is clear that we reached the highest ground
A while back, although neither of us said so.
For some time I have felt that different muscles
Were taking the strain. We have come by a winding route,
But hardly noticed how far, as we climbed and climbed,
Our upturned faces always searching ahead
To pick out the path, avoid the dangerous scree,
And we rarely stopped to rest or look around us.
Whatever we missed, the flowers to left and right,
The tiny lakes below, the neighbouring crests
Of other peaks we might have climbed instead,
We can tacitly accept it is too late now,
But we shall not soon forget the many moments
That made the climb worthwhile: the frozen pools,
The sudden stag, the eagle, poised to stoop,
Cloud-shadows moving over rock and heather.
And now, as we go down into the valley,
In the hours before the light begins to fail
There will be time to pause and enjoy the way
The grey gives way to green, and the lower crags
Are lit by slanting rays, and we shall know
That we have made the most of the last of the sun.





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