Corpse Way

Maps make earth new. 

They cleanse Roman roads, 

purge Saxon blood-ways 

and dull the bridled bells of drover’s tracks. 

          he places soil upon her breast 

Roads elude maps: 

they turn shy of hill and bog, 

drown in brackish light  

rising green-girdled by hedge. 

          he wraps her in linen, not wool  

Maps trace roads  

now forgotten. 

Ling and bilberry fuddle  

hollowed tracks between dale and pit. 

          he burns embers at her door 

Jiggers and Jaggers; 

road names muddled  

by southern tongues 

are fixed by maps. 

          he cradles her once again 

Maps muffle  

the ring and thud 

of Neddy Dick’s  

stone xylophone. 

          he lays his daughter on stone 

Roads root, 

salt and black. 

Now, only the living walk 

clattering in boots 

          he whispers words of warning  

lumbering 

making ammonite patterns; 

a maze of prattle and footfall. 

Maps silence the souls on Corpse Way. 

          He will never rest. 

I found a wonderful book, 'Swaledale' by Ella Pontefract and Maria Hartley.  It has a chapter on the Corpse Way. I was intrigued by a story about a man who buried his daughter in linen as opposed to the compulsory wool.  He was fined £5 in 1637, the equivalent of over a £1000 in today's money. The wood engraving is of the church where he would have taken his daughter for burial. 

Superstitions surrounding the track are forgotten now, but it was believed that 'if the dead were taken any other way they would not rest in their graves.' Resting stones for the wicker coffins are still visible along the footpath today.