Kinder Scout

by Helen Mort


Kinder Scout

Gold light. I wish the day

could break me like an egg

 

so I’d ooze the same colour, flatten

on the skillet of Mam Tor.

 

I’d like the summit path to be a knife

that pared me, skin

 

like apple skin, saving

just my necessary parts.

 

Surely the best northwesterly

could whip me into lightness,

 

sugar me, admit the air

so something of this landscape

 

could be folded in:

September bracken, lichen, stone.

 

I don’t know if I’m ready

to be taken

 

but I’d like to lie prepared:

unnoticed, important as butter,

 

softening

on the hill’s plate.