Main heading

Gill McEvoy

Do you know the recreated lake at Blakemere, Delamere Forest? I find it a creepy place, like 'the land that time forgot'.
Here is a poem about it.

Blakemere.

There is a tree touched by Midas,
an oak made of gold,
stands on the shore of a silver lake
where nothing comes or goes.
Under the mercury water's surface
other trees lie drowned.
This is the resting place of silence
in a world grown old.

Andrew Rudd

Gallowsclough

When you get to Hatch Mere
something heaves in the reeds
mud starts moving
with glooping footsteps.
You don’t linger.

Hart Hill – ferny shadow
sanctuary until nightfall.

Across Hornby’s Rough
the path turns into a brown torrent.
You limp from aspen to aspen.

On Hunger Hill
you claw bark from trees
stuff it in your mouth.

By Hondslough Farm
the baying slavering teeth
of wild dogs. You don’t stay.

From Hangingstone Hill
you look back.
The forest lies in mist.
Time to go south.

Higherbarn. Hoofield. Huxley.