On the Borders of Wordsworth Country, In a Troubled Timernby Marion MontgomeryrnNatland hills are gentle, sloping downrnFrom Helm to the trough-cutting Trent;rnMy tower is not your shadowed Grasmere cottagernHigh-circled by fells and scree, like Druid stonesrnShaggy in mists, lowering in spring light.rnGrasmere, couched down in mountains by deep water;rnRydal Fell, the slant of Grasmere Common,rnLoughrigg and Langdale to the south and west—rnYou know these places I am namingrnWith sounds that echo as if my own familiars.rnA country of stark peaks and ridgesrnWhere sheep and tourists may yet be lostrnWith a little careless pilgrim labor;rnYou know weathers on Helvellyn northwards,rnIts Striding Edge a ragged knife blade.rnThat white ridge path on the mountain back liesrnTeasing in the god’s eye color photorn1 fondle at the tourist’s stand, first aidrnStations to our lagging eyes tillrnTransported,rnWhereon believing with my eyes closed,rnI walk arms out as if on stunted wings,rnAs on a rope, for fear of tumbling two miles downrnInto blue tarns the staggering sky must envy,rnA last quiet valley there north beyondrnFarmer Dodgson’s raucus tractor grindingrnNatland air into his sweet hay rows.rnLess wild than desolate, your steep reachrnOf crags toward Scotland looks familiarrnTo an eye subdued by meter’s desolations.rnBut when the clouds come down among the silencesrnOf thinned tourists at their random wonders.rnMay not old Roman ghosts of civil orderrnStand pale behind stone walls against the glancernOf tipped shafts?rnFlint strikes spark,rnA hard name burning low still in the settled mind:rnWestward across the slight sea, song and chantrnSteel the steady vise of order born of coldrnCaesar and Cicero, of the fading Senate.rnA chaos of words stirs the firm music.rnMilk bottles flame on shields in Ulster evenings.rnTin tops from garbage bins bang concreternWhile a tribal chant rises past meter,rnHigher than the cry of these static ravens.rnMARCH 1994/nrnrnrn