He carried a grudge from Land’s End to John O’ Groats

His starting point, a granite mass; cliffs tumbling,
arrows pointing to nearly nowhere, lost as Camelot

hiking hurt in all weathers, spitting distance in rhythm
with his stride. Every step more painful than the past;

bruised as proof, biting the neck of the woods. Tedious,
treeless, miles marshed into nothingness, his rage a rigid

route, bitterness barbing the view, boarding up the light.
Then out of nowhere,

a freak wind sent him flying, blowing his mind in the other
direction, uncoiling his anger, sloughing off his dead skin,

marking the spot with a cross. The end in sight strode onwards
soaked in peace; wild camping, zipping up the stars.



Helen Ross is a writer from Glasgow, where she is a teacher of History and Modern Studies. Her poems have appeared in various anthologies and online, including, The Amethyst Review, Black Bough, Dreich (forthcoming), The Darg, Glasgow: Historical City and Paisley Poems.