*/
Then, when we have remembered to forget,
you will trouble me again to follow you
across three shires and a river’s source
and over the steepest pass – late
in a year like this, when the weather
is hard at the hem of the car,
and I steady the wheel, reminded of my place,
and look down on the scarp with its paper-
clip turns, the tyres quarrying for grip;
hard to make sense of, but I descend
gladdened and breathless, rushed with life,
yet partly cheated, half wanting to be blown
to the corners of beyond – late
on a day like this, at the waters
of the deepest lake, when the clouds are filthy
and wind rips down the scree, and I turn to face,
seeking myself in the chamber of this;
when something like my own life
comes thundering over the water towards me.
Matthew Hollis is a poet, editor and biographer. His books include Now All Roads Lead to France: the Last Years of Edward Thomas (Faber & Faber) and the collection Ground Water (Bloodaxe)
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This article appears in the 14 Jun 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Corbyn: revenge of the rebel