Eggardon

This poem is about the place I've photographed here. I first read the words as I was sitting numbed on an underground train in London; published as part of the "Poems on the Underground" series up amongst the adverts. I couldn't believe it was a poem about a place I love. We've walked here many times; I always marvel at how anyone ever could call it home, such is it exposed to the elements.
While the iron age earthworks are clearly still visible of the top of the hill, these furrows catching the snow of the slopes caught my eye today.


A Prehistoric Camp

It was the time of year
Pale lambs leap with thick leggings on
Over small hills that are not there,
That I climbed Eggardon.


The hedgerows still were bare,
None ever knew so late a year;
Birds built their nests in the open air,
Love conquering their fear.

But there on the hill-crest,
Where only larks or stars look down,
Earthworks exposed a vaster nest,
Its race of men long flown.

Andrew Young (1885-1971)