ii. Boulby Cliff


Tumuli,
the hard end of myth
they arevoiceless
perched above overtaking quarries.

Up here Beowulf's remaindered,
a few walkers stubbornly defend
shore up a grave,
a reputation, rubble.

Somehow this is Gilgamesh, krishna
Jesus and Cain and we
implicated in a garden of industry
become seekers of permanence
like myth is permanent

Now we, Bob & Kate,
In the face of population -
anachronism not idyll -
rechristen ourselves in fable:

Hi I'm Adam, he says,
You must be Eve?
Yes that's right.
Really
above the cairn of voices
I'm
still standing by the shore

listening
to the different sizes
their mingling colours:
pebbles
for the cairn
in my mouth -
Postmodern - not sure
which way is up.
Still
Adam's Teesside convinces,
what ideas, takes me
to a row of cottages,
the end house,
its imperative:
"Walkers Stop!"

Inside, tea,
and the clutter slopes off,
tabula rasa.

We test old felts,
red and yellow scribbles
make a fire,
we circle it,
compass points,
a ritual containment.
I speculate on pre-industry,
a secret working he says,
a bronze-age microchip
for Beowulf's belt