This collection of poems by OUP member Jenny Hamlett is a sensory delight. She creates an almost tangible poetic realisation of the natural world she has experienced through her passion for walking, and she makes very particular references to places and people. Through her eye for detail you can imagine taking the steps she has taken - you can battle the ‘sea of gales’ (Top Withins, p12); experience the spring of ‘tough grass and wet sphagnum moss’ and taste the ‘burst of purple bilberries (Walking Wild, p24-5); smell the ‘green stink of the woods’ (Wolf, p31) and enjoy the ‘music of leaves’ (Jennet’s Foss, p29).

In her poems, Jenny’s encounters with physical elements are combined with an exploration of the past. The very paths she treads hold the echoes of history which she encourages the reader to listen for - so for example in Housesteads (p20-1) we hear the ghosts of the Romans who built them, while Cressbrook’s Children (p60) brings to life the children who worked the mill.

Often, Jenny’s journeys have inspired a contemplation of spirituality which extends beyond conventional religion, as in The Black Madonna (p38); while elements of magic or legend weave themselves like threads through the collection, from the talisman of the title poem (p9) through the mystery of Crystal Man (p22), the malevolent Green man (p27-8) and the myth of the Unicorn (p58) to name but a few.

In the midst of all these journeys there is a remarkable hiatus, a journey of a different kind, in The Radiotherapy Diaries (p42-52). They are not sentimental but powerful poems about Jenny’s battle with cancer. Sparse descriptions of hospital visits and treatment are as raw and bleak as the winds on the moors, yet that geography she so loves becomes a metaphor for, and a talisman of, endurance and defiance.

Throughout, Jenny’s love for the countryside finds its voice in her poetry, which is pure and unadulterated. It is not fancy, but beautiful in simplicity. You can share and enjoy that world with her from your armchair, but be warned: her poems also make you want to get out and experience it for yourself while you can – and her final poem, Listen (p71) about the glory of the Lark is the ‘gift’ she leaves us with as the perfect reason to do just that.

HELEN HARVEY

From Vindolanda

My dear sister, I write
so you may understand and know
the extent of our Matronalia.

My sorrow that you could not come
is like the wind in the reeds
lost and lonely.

It began with rain, pure sheets of sky
plunging into the fort,
both burn and sike running to overflowing.

I could see nothing of the goddess.
Lucina, blacked out by cloud,
gave no hint of her silver shine.

Morning and the sky cleared.
Day was filled with water-light
dripping from early primroses and half-opened leaves.

I could not find him. The men came, a solemn line,
officers and soldiers alike.
He was not among them.

I searched. I returned to the praetorium
I asked at the bath house.
I sent Candidus scurrying to the soldiers' quarters.

Nothing. It was as if Juno Lucina herself
had swallowed him. Then I heard
he was out hunting before dawn.

I watched the others feast and dance
but could not join them.
My sandals were soled with lead.

When at last he came marching
into the fort pleading the excuse
of three red deer

I could not speak to him. Without his prayer
our marriage is over.
There will be no child next year.

Farewell my dearest sister, most longed-for soul.
I am in turmoil, need you here.
To Severa wife of Aurelius from Lepidina no wife at all.

Matronalia - Roman festival on 1 March, where husbands prayed for the continuation of their marriage.