Pendle Hill.
Today I walked upon the upper side
where earth and heaven sundered by the sky
and loaming clouds roll wind-beat gray
cross Pendle Hill at end of day.
Touch of rains, misted clinging wet
break and roil beading face and neck
skin-soaking cold but earth-fragrant sing
and carried in the the silence of the wind.
Then through the gloom lamenting cries are heard
wind-borne ripping, to break the hissing still,
and as terror takes my heart in chill embrace
my thoughts, unbidden, tell of witches and the worse
that might find comfort in this lonely place.
Go! Go! my mind insists,
and they, Stay! Stay!
Take not the downwards way.
What respite is there in light and warming fire
at the closing of this day?
Yet once I'm off that whale-backed hill
in a snug aside the bar
with a pint of beer and shepherd's pie
those cries seem so afar.
Then I laugh at tales of witches
and the gibbet where they died,
but will I that hill again at dusk?
—Oh no, I say. Not I.
But yet I think of Demdyke
her daughter and her kin
imprisoned deep and hanged up high
and murdered for their sin.
Perhaps I will that hill again
in the clear light of the day
when Bowland's in its beauty
and hate is far away.