I lived in deepest Somerset for many years, spent countless hours in Cheddar Gorge, climbing its rocks and crags from the outside, plumbing the depths of its caves where the viscera is filled with stalactites that are the eighth wonder of the world. The scale of Nature cannot be reduced to language, any more than can its emotional impact. Many times I went to Cheddar with my camera, thinking a photograph might capture what words could not. But the camera fails too. Cheddar is not the Grand Canyon, nor Timna, nor the Yarlung Zangbo of China, nor the Kali Gandaki of Tibet, nor the Cotahuasi of Peru, nor the Copper Canyon of Mexico, but if you cannot get to any of these, go to Cheddar. If the universe has a pulse, this is one of the places where you can hear it beating.
In
Cheddar Gorge
In
Cheddar Gorge
the grey rocks
the granite rocks
the
filaments of flung rocks
the
deep fissures
in the cleft rocks
and
the rooks’ nests
in the cliff face
and
the fossils forged
in the chill air
where
man rocks
at the slow pace
and the dizzy grace
of cold prayer
The
sheer gorgeousness of the sheer gorge
extends from the high crags
to the deep coombes
from
the siren outcrops of meteoric rock
to the cut shards of volcanic rock
Cold
caves dug beneath the live rocks
their icicles a cryptic code
engraved upon the tomb rocks
the hieroglyphs of some
poor devil’s lair
and
in the lofty air
at
every manageable and unimaginable angle
granite grey or grass green
ivy-clad or strung with ferns
the
overhanging limbs of ancient trees
dangle perpendicular against the falling
screes
The
steps of rocks ingress upon the pillars
of
a natural temple
altared by dolmens
(altered
primordially by a tantrum of the gods -
the
smashing of tectonic plates
against the walls of rocks)
obelisks
of original rock
pyramids of natural rock
catacombs
of raw crude rock
tumuli cut in the cathedral rock
in
pulse of tree and pulse of rock
monolith and tabernacle
shrine and nave -
pure rock
The
human voice requires a song
to sing the god and gorge within
and
harmonise it with the silence
of the gods without
to
echo pulse of tree and pulse of rock
in the beating rhythm of the human heart
and
transform godly silence
into human shout
Any
liturgy will do -
psalm or veda
ode or hymn
Words
are irrelevant in the end
whatever their significance in the beginning
Only
their rising upwards through the human gorge
to issue
carved in stone
not rock
reduced
to cairn or cottage
wall or track
and
the presumption of the humanly superior
in a pitted road
an empty church
a dug quarry -
and
the rock
the rock forever at our back
Worship
the hanging tree
the live rock
Worship
the dark bowels
of the cold caves
Worship
the high places
steep as climbing
Worship
the deeps
the steeps
the steps
the scars
Worship
the grey rock
the granite rock
the
deep fissures
in the cleft rock
the
rooks’ nests
in the cliff face
the
fossils forged
in the chill air
Worship
the lofty dizziness
where man rocks
lullabied
against the wind-swept broken boughs
dangling perpendicular against
the falling screes
inconsequential
in the chill air
like uprooted trees
You can find David Prashker at:
Copyright © 2014 David Prashker
All rights reserved
The Argaman Press
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