POEMS
ANNE STEVENSON
Salter's Gate
Jor Peter
There, in that lost
corner of the ordnance survey.
Drive through the vanity -
two pubs and a garage - of Satley,
then right, cross the A68
past down-at-heels farms and a quarry,
you can't miss it, a T instead of a
+
where the road meets a wall.
If it's a usual day
there'll be freezing wind, and you'll
stumble climbing over the stile
(a ladder, really) as you pull
your hat down and zip up your jacket.
Out on the moor,
thin air may be strong enough to
knock you over,
but if you head into it
downhill, you can shelter
in the wide, cindery trench of an old
leadmine-to-Consett railway.
You may have to share it
with a crowd of dirty
supercilious-looking ewes, who will baaa
and jerkily run away
